


divine intervention

by wetbreadstick



Series: divine intervention [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Guardian Angel AU, M/M, blanket permission for podfic/translation/other works in the same verse, cameos by several other characters, divineverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetbreadstick/pseuds/wetbreadstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel watches Yamaguchi dissolve into a puddle of existential uncertainty, expression betraying nothing. "You have a good soul." he says flatly. "But you're prone to accidents, and it's been decided that you need protection."</p><p>Yamaguchi gapes at him. "Are you saying," he begins cautiously, "that <i>God</i> thinks I'm a <i>good egg?</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. DROWNING

**Author's Note:**

> buckle in, kids, it's time for a guardian angel au

This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

It shouldn't have been ending at all, as it was -- twenty years of being alive didn't exactly fit the definition of ripe old age -- and yet here he was, thrashing through murky green water as he sank ever deeper.

Thinking on it, this was entirely his mother's fault. She'd never bothered to sign Yamaguchi up for swimming lessons, and as such, he'd spent his adolescence firmly parked in the shallow end of whatever body of water he'd been forced to step foot in.

Silently, Yamaguchi swears to haunt her after he dies. Which would be any moment now, evidently.

Even with water pressure crushing him at all sides, silver bubbles erupting from his straining lungs as his breath escapes, he apparently still has the capacity for some rational thought. Dying adrenaline, perhaps -- either way, his thoughts would be the last thing he'd have in this world. Might as well make his final moments as coherent as he can.

His chest feels like it's collapsing, clothes dragging his limbs down, arms and legs sore from desperately grasping for the surface of the water. The static dizziness behind Yamaguchi's eyes builds, stinging along with the muddy water that envelops and soaks every part of him -- he can hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears like some sort of drumbeat, stomach on the verge of caving in.

All he'd done was accidentally drop his wallet off the pier and into the water. When he'd carefully (very, very carefully) leaned down to grab it, he'd lost his footing on the slick wood and tumbled headfirst into the lake. (All that caution for nothing. Maybe money really _was_ the root of all evil.)

Finally, there's no air left in him, and the pressure is too much-- his mouth finally opens to gasp, lungs starved and screaming , but there's no air, just water filling his throat and lungs and choking and stinging and heavy. There's black and color edging in at the corner of his vision, and _oh_ , good, there's something bright dancing in the water. It's the light at the end of the tunnel, surely.

The pale glow gets brighter as Yamaguchi's ears ring deafeningly, lighting up the water around his freckled skin. He feels weightless, pain easing up from his chest -- it's warm and beckoning, and as he finally starts to close his eyes, the world turns to golden light around him.

Death is surprisingly pleasant. The light pulls him gently upwards, towards the sky -- to heaven, no doubt -- and it's soft, shimmering and soothing and Yamaguchi, free of the agony of death, feels whole. Safe. At peace. 

\---- and then he's coughing his lungs up onto the pier, water spilling from his mouth and nose. It stings, eyes watering as he chokes, body both trying to purge the water from his lungs even as it tries to suck air into them. Everything hurts, he's sore and aching, soaked body heaving as he vomits water onto the wood below him. His body shakes, wracked with shudders as he wheezes in labored breaths. There's silt and grime stuck to his skin, clothing sodden and clinging to his waterlogged body.

Nothing registers for what seems to be hours as he trembles against the pier. When he finally gathers some semblance of himself, shivering until he can breathe again, he becomes aware of several things: first, he’s not dead; second, he’s freezing; third, there’s someone standing next to him.

From where he’s lying, he can see their shoes. Dimly, he notes that they’re dry. They’re also really expensive looking, but that is not the point. Yamaguchi’s burning gaze travels up, up over jeans, still up – man, this guy is _really_ tall – over a black jacket and then finally comes to rest on his face. It’s framed by a mussed halo of blonde hair, a pair of glasses perched on his entirely unimpressed expression.

“—I said, are you alright?”

With a start, Yamaguchi realizes that the stranger had been speaking to him. He shakes his head quickly, trying to clear the water from his ears, but groans as his vision spins as a result.

“I—“ Yamaguchi manages before promptly launching into another coughing fit, yet more water dripping from his nose and mouth. The stranger lofts a brow as he struggles to sit up, arms shaking with the effort. “I think so,” he finally rasps. He blinks up at the stranger, squinting, voice shot to hell. “Were you…” a pause. “the one who pulled me out?” he asks unsteadily.

The stranger pauses, regarding him with a peculiar expression.

“Yes,” he finally answers. Yamaguchi offers him a grateful smile, the best he can despite the fact that he’s shaking too hard to stand.

“Thank you,” Yamaguchi adds, voice hoarse and barely audible. “I would’ve… drowned. If it weren’t for you.”

His stomach drops as the entirety of his own statement sinks in. He’d almost died. He would be dead right now. Yamaguchi is suddenly aware of how much he’s shivering, and he drops his gaze, suddenly feeling strange and empty. The water's chill is bone-deep, freezing him right to the core.

“Here,” the stranger says suddenly, breaking the darkening silence. Yamaguchi looks up at him just as he offers a hand. “Stand up. I’ll take you home.” Blearily, Yamaguchi stares at it before reaching out, the stranger’s palm warm against his own as he helps him to his feet.

His legs wobble underneath him, and the stranger makes a pointedly displeased noise, shrugging out of his jacket. “Take this,” he says briskly, slinging it around Yamaguchi’s shoulders.

It’s shockingly warm, but Yamaguchi is more than grateful for the comfort it brings. As he haltingly pulls it tight around him, his eyelids start to droop, and the stranger places a steady, warm hand on his back.

* * *

 

Yamaguchi doesn’t remember walking back to his apartment, but he’s more than happy to disregard that particular detail as the familiar doorknob of his front door turns under his frigid fingers.

He slurs a quick apology to the stranger, inviting him to make himself at home until he’s made himself more presentable, before stumbling off to his room.

He strips his sodden clothing off with mechanical precision, letting them drop to the floor in a soaking heap before dragging himself to the bathroom. The cold in his bones makes every movement slow and tired. Yamaguchi doesn’t trust the shower right now – doesn’t want to be anywhere where he can be submerged right now, thank you very much – so he just thoroughly wipes himself down with a wet washcloth.

No matter how hard he tries to push it out of his mind, the thought of sinking to the bottom of the dark lake is intrusive, and he has to stop more than once to wait for his beating heart to calm down.

It takes more than a few minutes for Yamaguchi to trudge back to his room and pull on some dry clothes, but once he does, some semblance of warmth begins to return to his drenched bones.

“Sorry,” he says breathily, voice only infinitesimally steadier as he rounds the corner and back into the front room. “I…” Yamaguchi pauses, finding himself at a loss for words. How were you supposed to address someone who had just saved your life?

“—would you like some tea?” he finishes weakly, gaze focused on the stranger.

The stranger turns to Yamaguchi, gaze sweeping up and down his now-dry body. That makes him self-conscious, suddenly, and he shifts from foot to foot, gaze briefly flicking away.

“No, thank you.” He finally says, breaking the silence. Yamaguchi nods in response, jerky and quick.

“I’m going to… go put the kettle on for myself, then.” He responds numbly, before slowly making his way into the kitchen.

After safely perching the kettle on the stove, he ambles cautiously back to the stranger. He hasn’t moved a muscle, which is unnerving in itself, and Yamaguchi pauses before moving to sit in the armchair across the coffee table from where the stranger was sitting. (Both pieces of furniture were unbearably ugly, and it was strange to see someone he didn’t know perched on his threadbare floral pattern couch—but they had been his grandmother’s, and he wasn’t going to let them go to waste.)

“Ah,” Yamaguchi says, and the stranger blinks at him, motion returning to his face and body where it’d been unnaturally still, as if he’d been in some sort of sleep mode. “Thank you, again… I don’t think I caught your name…?” he trails off, pointedly allowing a lull in the conversation.

“I don’t have one.” The stranger replies shortly.

Yamaguchi blinks. “No name?” he repeats weakly.

“No.” he replies.

Vaguely, Yamaguchi wonders if he’d just let some sort of crazy murderer into his apartment.

“Okay,” he responds slowly. “Where are you from, then? Do you live here?” the questions are cautious, now, as Yamaguchi lets disbelief bleed into his tone.

The stranger stares at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted two heads. “I’m not from here.” He responds, enunciating each syllable as if talking to a child.

Yamaguchi’s brow furrows – is he insulting him? He makes an incredulous noise, a defensive chuckle lodging in the back of his throat.

“Yamaguchi.” The stranger says suddenly, sounding bored. Yamaguchi freezes – he hadn’t told the stranger his name. A cold chill creeps down his spine, tingling anxiety along every nerve. There was something very, _very_ wrong with this man.

“How do you—“

“I’m an angel.”

A thick silence immediately falls, Yamaguchi wide-eyed and unmoving as the stranger stares him down.

“Okay.” Yamaguchi finally speaks, forcing his voice not to wobble, “Okay, uh, I know you saved me from drowning, but that doesn’t really mean—“

“Yamaguchi.” Again. The stranger looks tired. “An _angel_. From heaven. Paradise. Nirvana. The big man in the sky sent me.”

Yamaguchi is now officially, completely, thoroughly freaked out. He opens his mouth to respond, mind spinning – this guy is definitely some sort of stalker. Or murderer. Maybe even a serial killer. There’s no way Yamaguchi is staying in the same room as him.

“Alright,” he answers carefully, ever-so-slowly moving to stand up. “That’s – well, it was nice meeting you, and thanks again—“

“Sit.” The stranger says. His voice hasn’t changed, but there’s a ringing, deep authority there that Yamaguchi feels compelled to obey. He sits with a thump, body tense against the lumpy chair. “I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger continues, gaze boring into him. “Just listen.”

Yamaguchi’s mouth clicks shut, and he watches him with morbid curiosity. When the stranger shows no indication of further speech he frowns, brows crashing together with trepidation—

–-- but then he hears a **sound**.

It’s a word and it’s _not_ —it’s nothing he could ever say, could ever _dream_ of recreating with his voice, and the syllables fall through his mind like water through a sieve.

There’s a buzzing at his fingertips, warm and pulsing, the little hairs on his arms and neck prickling. It’s thunder and bells and a dull hum, wind particles pulled apart, ozone and sandalwood and the roaring, spinning funnels of far-off boiling stars.

The air is thick with static, blue lightning drawing crackling lines of electricity across Yamaguchi’s freckled skin. There’s fireworks behind his eyes, ocean salt, cinnamon and evergreen and quiet yellow light shifting through the summer trees. His breath is tight and tornado-heavy in his throat.

He tastes mangoes, tastes frost and icicle-drop mars, windswept rock and silence. Color balloons behind his heart—African-violet-pink, strawberry red, silent sky indigo. His chest is full. His head swirls. His legs tingle. There’s the deep lowing of blue whales in his ears, a swan’s last song, the sun-happy burbling of a stream.

Two tears drip down his cheeks. He doesn’t know where they came from.

Somehow, Yamaguchi meets the stranger’s eyes, body pulled taut and humming with some far-off harp music and birdsong.

Had his irises always been that golden?

As soon as it’d started, the **sound** stops, and reality snaps back into its place. Distantly, Yamaguchi realizes he’d been holding his breath, and he lets it go in a long, shuddery exhale.

“What—“ he struggles for words, thoughts jumbled. There’s no way this could be real. Angels didn’t exist, let alone sit and make conversation with you while sitting on your grandmother’s couch. “What was that?”

The stranger regards him with something akin to amusement. Or, well, Yamaguchi thinks it’s amusement. It’s kind of hard to tell.

“That was my name,” he replies simply, and Yamaguchi groans, rubbing the last fizzling bubbles of color from his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“So let me get this straight,” Yamaguchi begins disbelievingly, voice a touch higher than usual. “You’re—alright, let’s say you’re an angel, okay—one who looks like a human—and… God sent you? What?”

The angel clicks his tongue, looking sour. “Guardian angel.” He says stiffly, regarding Yamaguchi from behind his glasses. “I was… sent to protect you from harm.”

Yamaguchi stares.

“You have five chances,” the angel explains flatly. “I’ll save you from certain death that many times, and then my job is done and I have to leave you.”

Yamaguchi laughs, high and a little hysterical. “Five lives? Like some sort of video game? And then… then, what, it’s game over?”

“’Game over’ is what I’m trying to avoid.” The angel’s tone drips with sardonicism, but Yamaguchi still hears the severity in it, and he stops laughing.

He feels lightheaded suddenly, and he slumps back, incredulous gaze still trained on the angel. There’s so much he wants to say, and yet nothing but a buzz of exhausted confusion comes to mind.

“The lake was your first chance,” the angel continues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I can only save you four more times.”

Yamaguchi laughs again, weak and incredulous. “I’m not the danger-seeking type. I don’t think you have to worry.”

The angel stares at him blankly, and he groans, carding his fingers through his ruffled hair.

The reality of the situation had gone from ridiculous to downright terrifying. Five minutes ago, he'd never considered the possibility that angels could be real, and now a bespectacled guardian was sitting across from him, claiming to be his fairy godmother.

“Oh my God,” Yamaguchi groans again, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t—what – why me?” he finally manages, voice edging on desperation.

The angel watches Yamaguchi dissolve into a puddle of existential uncertainty, expression betraying nothing. "You have a good soul." he says flatly. "But you're prone to accidents, and it's been decided that you need protection."

Yamaguchi gapes at him. "Are you saying," he begins cautiously, "that God thinks I'm a good egg?"

“If you want to put it that way.” There’s a small, almost indiscernible flicker of amusement in the flecked gold of his eyes. “You’re not the only one with a guardian. Don’t let it go to your head.”

There’s a condescending lilt to his voice, and Yamaguchi somehow finds it in him to bristle. As his brow creases, the angel offers a vaguely satisfied quirk of his mouth.

Even with the nearly undetected verbal jab, Yamaguchi find himself overflowing with questions. “How long will you stick around for? Will you go to someone else if I… use all my chances?” he asks slowly, struggling to organize his thoughts.

“For however long it takes you to almost get yourself killed five times.” The angel shrugs, before pausing noticeably. For the first time since they’d met, there’s a hint of genuine emotion on his face: uncertainty. “I don’t know where I’ll be assigned.” His tone is clipped, shutting out any opportunity for further inquiry.

Yamaguchi decides not to push it.

“Your name…” he begins briefly, thinking of the small-scale electric storm that’d surged through his apartment. “I, uh, obviously can’t pronounce that—“

The angel clears his throat. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

“— _so_ ,” Yamaguchi continues pointedly, “What can I call you? Do angels look the way you do now? Human? Do you have human names?” he plies the angel with queries, watching as the rapid-fire questions wipe the amused look from the angel’s face.

“No.” he says flatly. “We don’t look like this. I am…” he hesitates, as if trying to find the right words. “The light… you saw in the lake. That was a... pure manifestation of myself.” He grimaces as he glances at Yamaguchi, whose mouth had fallen open. “This… is something I have created. A redraw of someone who… used to exist. This face is not mine.” His words come slowly, eyes trained forward, tone reluctant. “It is the face of... a human who has already passed on.”

Yamaguchi absorbs this in silence, a dull ache beginning to throb behind his temples. “Oh,” he says, after opening and closing his mouth a few times. How could anything be made out of light? How could it look human?

“Did the your face—uh—the person, did he have a name?” he continues haltingly, voice numb and overwhelmed.

The angel takes pause, regarding Yamaguchi carefully.

“Yes.” His voice is incrementally slower than it’d been before, thoughtfulness flashing across his features. “He was Tsukishima Kei.”

“Kei…” Yamaguchi repeats, mouth silently shaping around the name _Tsukishima_. “Should I—call you that, then?”

The angel hesitates. “If you’d like,” he says, a dismissive shrug following. “I suppose I can’t remain nameless to you forever.”

Yamaguchi stares, mentally running the name through his mind, before the shrill whistle of the boiling kettle violently jostles him back to reality.

The reminder that the world did, in fact, exist outside this conversation only made everything that much harder to swallow. Yamaguchi stares at the ground before standing, slow and cautious, as if the floor would give way beneath his feet.

“I’m going to check on that.” He says, finally, unsure feet already carrying him to the kitchen. The angel doesn’t respond as Yamaguchi edges out of sight.

The making of tea is routine: had he not known the motions by heart, the whirlwind of Yamaguchi’s thoughts would have stopped him in his tracks. Mindlessly, he clutches his mug of peppermint tea before making his way back to the front room.

“Tsukis—“ he begins, before stopping short.

There’s no sign of the angel. Mouth falling open, Yamaguchi rounds the corner of the couch, eyes roving over where he’d just been sitting.

There’s no indication he was ever there, except for what seemed to be several downy feathers resting against the rough fabric. Disbelievingly, Yamaguchi reaches out to pick one up, only to have it dissipate in a puff of golden dust. There’s a muted sound of windchimes as it fades, a spark of electricity bouncing bright off of Yamaguchi’s fingers.

He stares at the spot where’d it been, dumbstruck, before another bordering-on-hysterical laugh bubbles from his throat.

Yamaguchi sets his tea on the coffee table with a _clink_ , the room suddenly feeling very empty and quiet around him. With reality set back into place, his limbs sag with sudden exhaustion, eyelids drooping.

Thoughts of drowning, death, life, god, angels – and who knows what else – all sit at the forefront of his mind, chasing each other in endless circles. Tsukishima’s sudden absence only served to aggravate it – with no one to assure him of the authenticity of his thoughts, they ran wild, making Yamaguchi’s head spin.

It becomes too much as he stands, breath coming fast, frozen with the maelstrom of his own thoughts, and he lets himself go boneless and exhausted, collapsing backwards onto the sofa.

The couch is soft under him as he stares at the ceiling – he counts the ceiling panels, stares at the inert ceiling fan, makes imaginary patterns with the various water stains seeping into the plaster – anything to keep his mind at ease.

He notes that the couch is warm, unusually so, but it’s soothing nonetheless. Even with his head crammed full to burst, it brings some modicum of comfort to his waterlogged bones.

As he lets himself sink into thoughts of warmth and golden light, he realizes with a start that he’d forgotten to give Tsukishima’s jacket back.


	2. BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi's as sweet as sugar cookies, and Tsukishima is terrible at answering his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special delivery

Yamaguchi had loved sweet things all his life, but he had to draw the line somewhere.

Taking the job at the bakery had seemed like a dream at the time. What could be better than being surrounded by sweets 24/7?

Fifteen pounds and an unfortunate aversion to macaroons later, he’d quickly learned to think differently.

Even though the sight of the colored pastries now made his stomach turn, Yamaguchi did genuinely enjoy his job. His shift coincided with those of people he recognized from campus – the cheerful ginger cashier and the surly dark-haired baker both had familiar faces.

Hinata and Kageyama were their names, as he’d soon learned. Hinata made for a perfect cashier, what with his bubbly demeanor, whereas Kageyama preferred to sulk in the back where no one could talk to him. Occasionally, he’d stick his head out to grouch at someone, but other than that he determinedly hid himself among the boiling ovens.

Maybe he liked suffering. Yamaguchi had yet to figure it out.

Initially, Kageyama had insisted that he and Hinata work apart, but Yamaguchi wasn’t dumb: he’d noticed the cashier’s ever-increasing visits to the back room.

He’d decided to turn a blind eye.

Yamaguchi took care of everything in between – he checked orders, iced cakes, made displays, stocked the glass case in the front, and so on. He preferred the flexibility, as it gave him a chance to tie up any loose ends – that, and nobody noticed if he stole a rainbow cookie here and there.

( _Those_ never got old. Yamaguchi swore up and down that macaroons were the only thing on his blacklist.)

He carefully considers the tray of powdered sugar cookies in front of him, idly wondering if he could get away with stealing one. They’re large and soft, arranged in haphazard stacks. No one would be able to tell.

With an exaggerated sigh, he decides otherwise – his throat was still raw from almost dying earlier that week, and it made eating solid food just this side of painful.

Bemoaning the tragic circumstances, Yamaguchi wonders if he would’ve been better off dead after all.

With another longing glance, he picks up the tray of cookies, balancing them carefully as he makes his way back into the front room. There’s powdered sugar dusting his hands and face, dark apron smudged with white.

From behind the register, Hinata turns to face him, eyes bright and mischievous.

“Stealing cookies again?” he teases, eyes following Yamaguchi as he makes his way over to the glass case.

Yamaguchi lets himself chuckle, a touch uncertain. He’d decided to keep the near-drowning incident to himself. There was no reason to tell anyone – if Hinata, especially, had gotten wind of that particular story, he would’ve pestered Yamaguchi for details until the end of time.

Given the supernatural element that'd ensured Yamaguchi's survival, Hinata didn’t need to know about his lake-induced sore throat.

“Maybe,” he says evasively, crouching down to slide the tray onto its smooth metal rack. He regards it for a moment, pondering its neatness, before deciding that it is, in fact, too disorganized. With an almost inaudible noise of disapproval, he shifts down to his knees, elbow deep in the display case as he sets about straightening the pastries.

When the front bells chime, he pays it no mind.

“Hi,” Hinata chirps, bright as ever, “welcome to Karasuno Bakery – how can I help you today?”

Yamaguchi pulls his hands back, silently admiring his handiwork.

“Is Yamaguchi Tadashi here?” the newcomer inquires, tone flat.

Yamaguchi knows that voice. With a start of surprise, he shoots up to his feet – only to slam his head into a fixed, heavy tray of saran-wrapped muffins.

He curses under his breath as the pastries tumble to the floor, hands clutching his spinning head. Slowly, he finishes rising to a standing position, exhaling hard as he stares at Tsukishima’s impassive face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, pointedly keeping his voice calm. Shooting stars of pain fizzle behind his eyes, and he winces, skull throbbing under his palms.

“I’m here to check on you.” The angel replies shortly, eyes flicking to the top of his head before making eye contact once more. “Are you alright?”

Yamaguchi frowns, expression faltering as his face burns hot with embarrassment.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, voice betraying his shame.

Hinata watches them both, mouth hanging open.

“You can’t stay here,” Yamaguchi blurts, trying to regain some shred of dignity.

“Why not?” the angel lofts a brow.

Kageyama pokes his head out from behind the back doors.

“It’s store policy.” Yamaguchi lets his hands fall back to his sides. “You can’t just hang out here and do nothing.”

“What do you suggest I do, then?” Tsukishima’s voice is testy, and Yamaguchi’s expression changes to one of irritated disbelief.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hinata and Kageyama watching their back-and-forth like a tennis match.

“Buy something,” he replies quickly. Without waiting for a response, he grabs a wrapped blueberry muffin and a bottle of orange juice, pushing them across the counter towards Tsukishima.

The angel blinks.

“Take these,” Yamaguchi says, brow furrowed. “Hinata,” he turns to the cashier, who suddenly looks very interested in the plate of biscotti in front of him. “Could you ring him up for me, please?”

Hinata nods wordlessly – for once – and punches the price into the cash register.

“That’ll be three-fifty,” he says, voice high with suppressed laughter.

Tsukishima’s gaze lingers on Yamaguchi’s face before turning to Hinata, who suddenly looks a little intimidated. He reaches out, fingers curled inwards as if holding something in his hand.

Slowly, Hinata extends an open palm.

There’s a distinct _pop_ as the air pressure changes, and Yamaguchi blinks in disbelief as the sound of far-off windchimes reaches him. He watches as several coins fall from the angel’s hand and into Hinata’s, glowing a pale gold.

Yamaguchi looks around, dumbstruck – Kageyama had long since disappeared, and Hinata’s eyes look alarmingly glassy and distant.

The air loosens with a quiet hiss, and Hinata blinks, gaze clearing as he smiles at the angel.

“Thank you!” he chirps, cash register dinging as he closes it.

Casting a final look at Yamaguchi, the angel slowly picks up his food, before turning and stiffly making his way over to one of the rickety tables pushed against the wall.

For a moment, the only sounds is that of chair legs squeaking against the linoleum floor as Tsukishima pulls a chair out. There’s a faint creak as he sits, and then… silence.

Hinata stares at Yamaguchi, wide-eyed and trembling with barely suppressed excitement. He can see words threatening to burst from Hinata’s mouth, and Yamaguchi purses his lips—Hinata’s loudmouthed commentary was the last thing he wanted right now.

Before Hinata gets a chance to speak, Yamaguchi snatches a macaroon from a tray and shoves it into the cashier’s mouth.

* * *

 

“He’s starting to creep me out,” Hinata whispers into Yamaguchi’s ear.

Well, he thinks it’s supposed to be a whisper, given that Hinata’s voice matched the sound level of a jackhammer at any given time. (It’s only about as loud as a trumpet now. It’s a notable improvement.)

Either way, he’s still loud, and Yamaguchi winces as he flinches back from Hinata’s earnest face.

“I mean,” Hinata continues, not giving Yamaguchi a chance to respond, “he’s been sitting there since your shift started! Six hours ago!” Exaggerated shock laces his tone, eyes widening once more.

Yamaguchi casts a wary glance over at the angel. He hadn’t moved from the table – somehow, he’d managed to make one muffin and a bottle of juice last for close to his entire shift, all while staring at the crowded messageboard hanging on the wall. He seems particularly interested in the notice that states that there are kittens available for adoption.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Hinata asks with a sudden gasp, voice reverting to its usual deafening volume.

“No!” Yamaguchi’s protest is louder than he’d meant it to be, high with panic, and he sees Tsukishima’s golden irises shift to regard them out of the corner of his eye.

“No,” he says again, quieter, but still insistent. “He’s just…” Yamaguchi wracks his mind for an appropriate term, “an acquaintance.”

Hinata looks thoroughly unconvinced. Before he can speak, however, Kageyama peers out from behind the back doors.

“Hinata,” he calls, voice grudgingly quiet, “if you still need a ride, hurry up.”

Hinata immediately scrambles to tug his apron off, tossing it onto a hook set into the wall. He skids over to the clock-out machine, but before he does anything, he hesitates to cast a guilty look back at Yamaguchi.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Yamaguchi waves him off with a genial smile. Hinata mouths a ‘thank you’, hands clasping together as if in prayer.

“Sure thing,” Yamaguchi answers cheerfully, “have fun with your _boyfriend!_ ”

He makes sure to raise his voice on the last word, _boyfriend_ echoing off the bakery’s walls.

There’s a loud crash from the back room, and the color drains from Hinata's face.

“I take it back,” he squeaks, backing up with an affronted look, “you don’t get a thank you. I hope a fruitcake falls on your head.” With that, he turns on his heel and darts off into the back room.

Yamaguchi allows himself a small smile, taking a secret pleasure in his deviance. Feeling some modicum of triumph, he turns back to the counter, somewhat cheered.

He comes face to face with Tsukishima, who definitely hadn’t been standing there a second ago.

“Aaa— _aagh_!” Yamaguchi’s strangled shout of surprise rings throughout the empty shop as he jerks back with a start. “Why—“ he heaves out, voice high, “why do you _do_ that?” he asks shrilly, a hand clasped over his thumping heart.

“Why do you work here?” Tsukishima says suddenly.

Yamaguchi blinks. “What?”

“I said,” the angel repeats impatiently, “why do you work here?”

“For money? So I can pay for things?” Yamaguchi answers, confused. “You know… food? Clothes? Tuition?”

“What are you studying?” the angel interrupts him again.

“Education…?” Yamaguchi answers, nonplussed. Why was he playing twenty questions? Why did he care?

“Why?” Another abrupt inquiry. Yamaguchi gets the sense that he’s trying to dig at something deeper.

“Because,” Yamaguchi sighs. If the angel wanted something philosophical, he’d give it to him. “Everybody should have a chance to learn. An education makes for a better life… and, well… everyone deserves a chance at a happy future.” He finishes lamely.

That sounded absolutely ridiculous. Yamaguchi's ears start to burn with embarrassment.

Tsukishima stares at him, and there’s something strange in his gaze.

After a few moments of silence, Yamaguchi pointedly clears his throat.

“I’m going to finish locking up," he says, carefully stepping around the angel. “Excuse me.”

Tsukishima doesn’t move save to watch Yamaguchi as he wipes down the counters, locks the cash register, checks the ovens. Once he’s finished bustling about, Yamaguchi returns to the front counter with a sigh, tugging his apron off to hang it next to Hinata’s.

Tsukishima’s still standing in the same place.

“Well… I’m going home.” Yamaguchi declares, tone awkward as he stares at the angel.

The angel blinks in response. (That seems to be his preferred method of communication, given his evident lack of conversational skills.)

Yamaguchi heaves a tiny sigh, pulling a jingling key ring from his pocket.

He can feel Tsukishima’s gaze boring into his back as he makes his way over to the panel of light switches. Feeling self-conscious, he casts another gaze back at the angel before flipping all the lights off.

Immediately, there’s a _pop_ and a crackle of electricity – for a moment, Yamaguchi thinks he’d shorted out one of the lights, but when he whirls around to look, nothing seems to be out of place.

The only thing worth noting is Tsukishima’s sudden absence.

The beginning of a dull headache starts to throb behind his eyes, and Yamaguchi exhales a frustrated sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Though entirely ironic, Yamaguchi’s convinced that the angel’s going to be the death of him.

* * *

 

Despite the calendar’s promise of spring, April continued to breathe frost into Yamaguchi’s mornings.

One particular day, after his alarm had graciously decided to turn itself off, he’d tugged the first jacket he’d seen out of his closet, booked it out of his apartment, then ran down to the bus stop as fast as he could go.

It figured, of course, that it was Tsukishima’s jacket. Yamaguchi’s initial sourness at this discovery had quickly dissipated, however: the jacket had retained some of its unusual warmth, and with the weather, Yamaguchi couldn’t help but feel grudgingly grateful.

The angel wasn’t _that_ bad, he supposed.

The day even seemed to pass by faster with the jacket on: both his sociology class and behavioral psychology class had passed by in a blur, and he’d been more than happy to let things continue as they were.

Unfortunately, the lecture hall that hosted his nutrition class had been sticky and hot, and he’d peeled the jacket off for fear of drowning in his own sweat. ( _That_ would have been a fun one to explain to Tsukishima.)

“Hey,” the boy next to him mutters, nudging Yamaguchi with an elbow, “I heard from Hinata that you got a boyfriend.”

Yamaguchi jerks with surprise, shooting him a scandalized look.

The Karasuno Bakery’s employee list consisted entirely of college students. Yamaguchi had gotten to know all of their faces, and upon seeing them around campus, had the opportunity to befriend them all. They all knew him by name, in turn – almost as if the bakery had formed some sort of unspoken, chocolate-scented bond between all of them.

Tanaka – shaved head, high energy, and a _gossip_ , now, apparently – worked the five A.M. shifts, if Yamaguchi recalled correctly. His brashness was more than a match for the surly attitude of the early morning crowd, making him entirely capable of taking care of himself.

“What?” Yamaguchi responds, half-affronted, half-distracted by the notes on the board up front. Tanaka rolls his eyes.

“A boyfriend,” he repeats in an exaggerated whisper, “Hinata told me.”

“Yamaguchi has a _boyfriend?_ ” Another voice pops up behind him, gleeful and curious, and Yamaguchi automatically groans as way of protest. The owner of the voice leans forward, grinning face coming into view.

When the semester had started, Yamaguchi had been grateful to have two other familiar faces in the same lecture. Unfortunately, he’d been unaware of the specific friendship between them, and it’d led to more teasing than he could remember.

They weren’t so bad on their own, but when put together, they were a whirlwind of high-energy snark and mischief.

Tanaka turns to the new speaker with a matching grin, jerking his chin in Yamaguchi’s direction.

“Yeah—heard it from a little birdie, y’know.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I heard he’s _blonde._ ”

They both turn their gaze on him.

“Oh my God,” Yamaguchi says faintly.

He doesn’t know the other one nearly as well as he knows Tanaka – the tuft of bleach blonde hair poking from its brunet nest is familiar, but his name remains a faint blur in his mind.

The only other thing Yamaguchi knows about him is that he works very sparse hours at the bakery. The same kind of self-discipline also applies to his academia, apparently, given that Yamaguchi can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually seen him in this class.

(He’s also heard that he refuses to work unless one of the older employees works at the same time as him, but—Yamaguchi isn’t one to gossip.)

“Is he blonde?” he pipes up, and Tanaka snickers.

“Didn’t know you were into blondes—“

“Is he hot? Has he popped your cherry—?”

“What, freckle boy? Deflowered—?”

“Impossible.”

“Definitely impossible.”

Yamaguchi’s head spins as he desperately tries to keep track of their high-speed verbal barbs, embarrassment rising hot and tight in his chest.

“I don’t—I don’t even _know_ him that well,” he finally interjects, sounding much more irritated than he’d meant to. “Don’t just _assume_ things.”

The assumption is ridiculous in itself—he doesn’t know Tsukishima. The angel’s only around because he _has_ to be. Yamaguchi allows his presence. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.

The angel does occasionally make for welcome - if not strangely alarming - company in Yamaguchi’s otherwise empty apartment. Other than that, he couldn’t claim any sort of relationship to him.

They both shut their mouths, but there’s a lingering smugness oozing from them both. Yamaguchi scowls.

“Nishinoya,” the professor’s voice rings back to them suddenly, “Tanaka. Yamaguchi. Since you seem to have _so_ much to discuss on this topic,” Yamaguchi immediately sits up, rod-straight, face burning, “—stop by my office later.”

As the rest of the class titters, Yamaguchi sinks down in his seat, resentment rolling off him in waves.

* * *

 

The concrete is spotted with rain under Yamaguchi’s feet.

He seethes quietly as he stares down at the sheaf of paper in his hands – his nutrition professor was well known for being cruel and unusual with her punishments, and to his trepidation, her reputation had preceded her.

A research paper was the last thing Yamaguchi needed. On top of midterms, essays, and work, it just added to the pile of stress that seemed to be growing ever taller.

He bumps into a telephone pole, immediately looking up to give it a nasty glare. Without missing a beat, he resumes walking, gaze fixating on the papers once more.

As he flips through them, he makes a turn onto the crosswalk, hardly sparing a glance at the traffic light. A _research paper_. A full-fledged, twelve-page, works-cited research paper. About the benefits of _egg yolks_.

Required electives should be illegal.

Distantly, he hears a gasp from behind him, and then a shout of alarm – irritated, he looks up, gaze searching for the source of the noise.

From where he’s standing smack in the middle of the road, he can see everyone on the sidewalk staring at him in horror.

Everything turns thick and tense around him.

He hears a blaring horn as the earth shakes – fear immediately congeals in the pit of his stomach, heavy and burning as he comes face-to-face with the mail truck barreling his way.

_Oh._

It hits him.

They say that time slows down in a catastrophe. Yamaguchi feels himself spin out in slow motion, bones splintering to pieces under his skin, muscles ripping apart as his body skids over the asphalt. There’s little rocks embedded in his nerves, head flopping to the side as he slams into the grassy median.

It’s disgusting—he doesn’t even look like a person anymore, ruined as he is, limbs twisted at unnatural angles as exposed, raw flesh shines pink and red all over his body.

Isn’t this supposed to hurt? His thoughts blur and fade as tires squeal close by, blood coppery in his mouth as it drips steadily onto the road.

A pale light winks into existence in front of him.

 _Tsukishima_. Right.

The light slowly wraps around him, impossibly soft and comforting, thrumming warmth down to his bones, radiating gold along every nerve. Dimly, he thinks of Tsukishima’s eyes.

There’s a strange pull inside of him, tugging him backwards. As if seeing it from someone else’s point of view, he watches his bones knit back together, flesh heal, color returning to his skin, flushed and golden, growing over where it’d been sheared off…

…and then he’s jarred awake, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. The sky spins above him, blue and cloudless. It’s dizzying.

A pain rips into him, then, and he barely stops himself from shouting, body convulsing as he clenches his jaw shut. It sears him from head to toe, bone deep and burning, and then—just like that, it’s subsiding in tiny ebbs.

He gasps shakily for air, feeling hot asphalt stinging his raw skin.

“Is he alright?” A strange voice, muffled, over to his left.

“I believe so, yes.” Tsukishima’s voice, behind his head.

Yamaguchi sags with relief, body aching against the ground. He’s alive. He’s really, truly alive.

He hears shifting of fabric, and then there's steady hands smoothly helping him into a sitting position. Through blurry eyes, he can see the small crowd gathered around him.

“I thought it was going to hit him for sure,” a woman declares, voice laced with both concern and relief. She bends down, closer to Yamaguchi’s level, and he blinks at her, managing a shaky smile.

“Thank goodness this young man was here to pull you out of the way.” Her gaze shifts up, admiration flashing across her face as she smiles at the angel. “You were very lucky.”

Yamaguchi shakily turns his head, skin burning, vision fading in and out before he meets Tsukishima’s glittering gaze.

“Yeah,” he slurs, and the angel blinks. “Lucky.”

* * *

 

“So,” Yamaguchi begins dubiously, “you can time travel, too?”

Tsukishima watches as he gently dabs at a nasty scrape, hissing through his teeth at the sting. He waits until Yamaguchi finishes bandaging the wound before deigning to speak.

“No,” he answers. “I caught you the split second before you died. I healed you, then, and dropped you on the side of the road.”

“ _Dropped_ me?” Yamaguchi repeats suspiciously. The angel shrugs.

“It had to look like _something_ had happened to you. A completely unmarred body would raise suspicions.”

Yamaguchi purses his lips, unconsciously wrapping his arms around himself.

“Then,” the angel continues, “I made it so that it seemed as if I’d pulled you out of the way.” Another pause. “The human mind sees what it wants to see. All of those bystanders convinced themselves that I’d yanked you out of the way just in time.”

He absorbs this in silence. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he woke up on the asphalt-- the sound of the truck horn, the sensation of bones snapping, skidding across the road… they play over and over in his head, like some sort of sick movie on repeat. He feels sick.

“Yamaguchi.” The angel speaks again. Perhaps it’s just Yamaguchi’s imagination, but his voice seems infinitesimally gentler. Tinged with sympathy, even. “These events are traumatic. They will continue to affect you.”

Yamaguchi swallows thickly.

“But you’re alive.” Tsukishima finishes, insistent. “That’s what’s important.”

He fixes his gaze on the angel, trying to force his unease down.

“Have you been watching me this whole time?” he asks quietly, idly rubbing his thumb against the rough couch curtains.

“Yes,” the angel replies simply, “I'm always watching.”

Yamaguchi momentarily flashes back to all the showers he’d taken in the past few weeks.

Tsukishima smiles.

“Also…” Yamaguchi clears his throat, pointedly changing the topic. “You… I know that you said that you’re… literally a ball of light, but – when I see you like that – the light is always… warm and gold? Are all angels the same...?” he trails off haltingly.

Tsukishima tenses, knuckles shifting as he grips the armchair under his hands.

“Warm?” he repeats, abrupt and rough. Yamaguchi nods. The angel purses his lips, casting his gaze to the side.

“What does that mean?” Yamaguchi presses. Tsukishima scowls.

“The perceived temperature,” he begins grudgingly, “reflects how well… we have received each other.” Another pause. He sounds sour. “It’s the level of acceptance between two bonded beings.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t want to think about the term _bonded beings_ too hard. His head is still fuzzy, sore where he’d likely cracked it against the asphalt when the angel dropped him.

“Will you tell me more?” Yamaguchi asks, then, surprising himself. “About angels, I mean.”

Tsukishima regards him disinterestedly. “What would you like to know?” he finally offers.

He falters—he hadn’t expected him to agree. Maybe it was out of pity, given Yamaguchi’s current pathetic state. He sniffles just for good measure.

“What religion do you follow?” the angel presses on, not waiting for an answer.

“Uh… I don’t… I’m not religious, personally…” Yamaguchi flounders. “But my family—they were vaguely Protestant, I guess.”

Tsukishima nods knowingly.

“Alright,” he continues briskly. “Protestant Christian, then. I, we—angels, that is—exist in a hierarchy. From the top down, there exist seraphim, archangels, guardians, and cherubi.” He rambles.

Yamaguchi blinks, confused.

“Wait,” he tries, but Tsukishima steamrolls right over him.

“Seraphim are closest to God; Archangels lead the armies; Guardians mediate relations between heaven and Earth; Cherubi watch over the gates of Eden—“

“Wait—“

“Guardians, such as myself, are the only ones who step foot on Earth—“

“Wai—Tsukishima, hold—“

“I’m visible to you because I was created to be: looking at a _Seraphim_ , however, would burn your eyes out—“

“ _Tsukishima!_ ”

At Yamaguchi’s shout, the angel grinds to a halt, irritation flashing over his features.

“Why,” Yamaguchi charges ahead, “why does it matter what religion I practice? It’s all the same, right?” his mind buzzes, confused, uneasy curiosity rising to the forefront of his thoughts.

Tsukishima stills. A glint flickers through his eyes.

“Wh—what would you have said if I’d told you I was... Jewish? Buddhist?” he forces out, words heavy on his tongue as he meets the angel’s eyes.

He says nothing.

“I—you—wait, would your answers be different? Is—...what would you have told me?” Yamaguchi’s breath catches in his throat, heavy silence blanketing them both.

“Which…” the words feel unnatural, tense, as if he’s saying something he shouldn’t. “Which religion is… right?”

The silence is deafening. There’s no sound between them, air taut and choking, and Yamaguchi exhales unsteadily.

Tsukishima smiles, then, a golden glow flickering just under his skin. It’s not a happy smile, nor a sarcastic one—the twist of his lips betrays a dangerous amusement, eyes flashing dark behind his glasses.

“What are you?” The words tumble from Yamaguchi’s mouth in an uneven stream, dropping like stones.

“An angel.” Tsukishima replies.

The glow fades from him, then, and the taut air slowly relaxes.

Yamaguchi stares, skin tingling. He’d stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have, he thinks-- for a moment, his fingertips had brushed the edge of the universe.

Even so, he’d only learned of the existence of angels some weeks ago. Yamaguchi was far from ready to contemplate the workings of reality.

“Why are you watching over me?” he blurts, desperate to chase the last tingles of stardust out of the air. “I mean—why me, specifically?”

Tsukishima’s face immediately shifts back to pointed neutrality, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says plainly. “It was a random selection.”

Yamaguchi narrows his eyes. That doesn’t seem right to him, somehow, and there’s a persistent question at the back of his mind. A dull throb kicks in at his temples, suddenly, and all desire to pursue the inquiry fades.

“What’s,” Yamaguchi begins, pausing as he hears the exhaustion in his own voice. “What’s the worst thing you’ve had to protect someone from?”

A long pause stretches out between them. Tsukishima looks torn, a myriad of unnameable emotions flickering across his face.

“You’re tired.” The angel says, standing. Yamaguchi opens his mouth to protest as he makes his way over, but suddenly finds he doesn’t have the energy.

As Tsukishima presses a palm to his forehead, he can feel the world go soft around him, couch meeting his back as he falls dizzily backwards. It’s a pleasant vertigo, and as he sinks deeper, he can feel himself brushing past the edge of the galaxy.

The last thing he sees before sleep is the unmistakable flash of troubled confusion on Tsukishima’s face.

* * *

 

Despite the fact that it’d been a nice, deep, relaxing sleep, the fact still remained that Tsukishima had, in essence, knocked him out.

Yamaguchi stares down at his notebook, his professor’s droning lecture going in one ear and out the other. His body still ached with a fierce passion – that kind of thing happened when you were tossed onto the street like a ragdoll, he supposed – but even with his outward lethargy, his mind remained a furiously working machine.

Did humans only hear what they wanted to hear? Were all religions interpretations of the same truth? What was Tsukishima? Who was God? What happens to souls when they die?

He exhales a quick sigh, pausing where he’d been unknowingly doodling fluffy wings in the margins of his notebook. It’s a cartoonish caricature of what he’d imagined an angel’s wings to be like, but they stand stark next to his messy notes, a reminder of the outlandish fantasy novel that’d slowly become his life.

With a groan, he slumps forward, forehead thudding onto the desk.

* * *

 

Three rows back, Tsukishima watches him with rapt attention.

Yamaguchi Glows brighter than everyone else in the room. Granted, he was probably biased, given the bond they shared as a Guardian and a Shielded, but setting even that aside, Yamaguchi’s silver would have been visible from miles away.

Thus far, he hadn’t had the chance to examine Yamaguchi’s Glow carefully, but something about it set his heart racing.

Well, he didn’t have a heart, but hope had risen like meteor dust at his core at the sight of his color. Despite himself, he’d grown curious, his gold glowing warm in response to Yamaguchi’s presence.

Quick attachment was dangerous, as he’d been warned many times, and for the most part he’d been diligent enough to keep his distance.

However, he’s not blind to the wings and halos Yamaguchi idly doodles on his papers, and he almost feels what could have been some sort of human affection.

Almost.

He doesn’t move when the air next to him sizzles with muted heat, fizzling with a _crack_ as another Guardian pops into place beside him.

Tsukishima sighs, feeling invasive amber clash with his gold, and he tugs his gaze away from Yamaguchi and to the intruder.

The other Guardian’s glamour has a catlike grin, black hair spiked roguishly, eyes fixed on Yamaguchi.

“So he's yours, huh?” he says, and Tsukishima hears the forest fires humming in his voice.

Tsukishima grunts, waiting a heartbeat before training his gaze on his Shielded once more. For a while, they sit in silence, watching Yamaguchi write down some meaningless drivel that marauded as human education.

“How many times so far?” the visitor says suddenly, irises sliding over to where Tsukishima’s sitting.

“Two.” He replies tersely. The visitor laughs.

“Already? Man, you’re losing your touch.” Tsukishima flashes him a slicing look. Frost slowly congeals, creeping over the floor beneath him. “With that glamour, too—haven’t seen you use that one in a while.”

With a derisive noise, Tsukishima turns back to his vigil.

“Don’t you have someone to be Guarding?” he answers icily, brushing off the visitor’s comments.

The intruder laughs, raising his palms in a gesture of defeat.

“Hey, hey, don’t take it out on me. Just take care of your Shielded, yeah?” he lets another silence fall, and Tsukishima pointedly doesn’t look at him, bristling gold dust hovering in the air.

“Just don’t let what happened last time happen again.”

Tsukishima whirls about in a rage, glamour flickering as blinding rays peek through the fake body he’d wrapped himself in.

The invader’s already gone, though stray amber motes still float lazily through the air.

Tsukishima makes an audible noise of derision, trying to force himself to relax. Despite his best efforts, however, his own gold peeks through his glamour in irritated flickers, angrily glittering particles zipping through the air.

Grudgingly, he stands, casting one last look at Yamaguchi and his silver.

Sooner or later, he’d be able to satisfy his own curiosities.

With a shock of electricity, he pops out of existence, leaving nothing behind but downy, golden feathers, glowing faintly as they float to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for reading!!


	3. ELECTROCUTION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamaguchi can't seem to stop running right into death's grip, and Tsukishima probably needs to find an easier job.

Unsurprisingly, having an entire cooler of iced coffee spilled on your head was not a pleasant experience.

Nishinoya had sworn up and down that it was an accident, and Yamaguchi’d been gracious enough to believe him, despite his and Hinata’s muffled laughter.

Afterwards, he’d spent a good chunk of his shift mopping the coffee from the floor, silently contemplating on how to explain the now-broken coffee machine to his boss.

He pointedly ignores the worried glances of the new baker as he shoves the mop back into its bucket.

Nishinoya had come back the moment the new long-haired baker had slipped into his apron. Since then, he’d been insufferably energetic, bouncing off the walls with glee. The baker – Asahi, he’d finally remembered was his name – had had the grace to look embarrassed enough for the both of them.

Their friendship was an interesting one. (Yamaguchi was sure it was more than friendship, actually—but he wasn’t a _gossip_ , and the thought of all of his coworkers canoodling behind his back was not a pleasant one.) Despite the obvious clash in personality, they meshed well—and more importantly, the baker kept Nishinoya out of trouble. For the most part.

He was pleasant company, Yamaguchi supposed, gentle as he was, though his skittish tendencies could be off-putting. He was nothing but sweet, however, and Yamaguchi was willing to look past his strange shyness.

“Yamaguchi,” Asahi begins, eyeing his helplessly stained shirt and apron, “do you want to go home and shower? Kageyama’s shift starts soon. I could take over for you.” He offers.

Yamaguchi blinks at him, a surprised look flashing across his features.

“Sure,” he finally accepts gratefully, moving to tug his apron off. With a sheepish laugh, he pushes his still-damp hair out of his face, his smile small and embarrassed. “I’d really appreciate that.”

Asahi takes the apron from him, unprompted and kind, and Yamaguchi’s gaze turns guilty as it drips coffee onto the baker’s shoes.

* * *

 

Even now, Yamaguchi remains a little wary of his shower. Closing his eyes under the spray just serves to bring back memories of murky green water pressing in all around him. Despite the time that’d passed since his near-drowning incident, it had continued to lurk at the corners of his dreams.

Sometimes, the memories of the lake would collide with those of the truck accident, and he would wake in a panic, convinced there was water in his lungs even as his bones splintered apart.

With a tiny sigh, Yamaguchi shuts the shower off, water dripping from his hair as the last of the iced coffee swirls down the drain.

He knows it was an accident, but Yamaguchi vows to get back at them, somehow.

(Despite his _apparently_ innocent demeanor, Yamaguchi did have something of a mean streak.)

He pulls his towel from its rack on the wall, wrapping it around his waist before pushing open the door and stepping into the hall.

Yamaguchi cards a hand through his sopping hair, blinking away the droplets that spring out at him. His bare feet carry him into the front room, intent on passing through to where his washing machine sits snugly in its closet.

\--he stutters to a halt, then, as he rounds the corner and comes face to face with Tsukishima perched in his armchair.

“Je— _sus_!” Yamaguchi jerks back with an undignified squawk, hands frantically flying to the towel draped loosely at his hips.

“Do you not know what _knocking_ is?” he accuses incredulously, uncomfortably aware of his half-naked state. He fumbles, pulling his towel closer around him. “What do you want?”

“I have to watch over you.” The angel says flatly, sounding like a broken record. Yamaguchi’d heard it all before.

He was used to Tsukishima popping in and out at random times – well, as much as anyone could get used to a cluster of celestial light and divine intent invading your apartment every so often – but even so, finding him sitting silently around the corner never failed to unnerve him.

“If you’re an angel,” Yamaguchi huffs, subconsciously fixing his towel once more, “then why can’t you watch over me invisibly?”

Tsukishima’s expression grows sour.

“I must remain visible while in your direct company.” He responds, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Yamaguchi squints at him, as suspicious as he is curious.

“Is this the face you’ve always used with people?” he asks, regarding him with a guarded interest.

“No.” the angel replies, tone clipped. “I don’t use the same one every time.”

“What did you look like before this?” Yamaguchi presses.

The angel noticeably hesitates.

“A young woman.” He finally answers, the words short and grudging.

“Why couldn’t you look like that this time?” Yamaguchi asks, voice betraying his disbelief. A girl would’ve been something he could appreciate, rather than a lanky, scowling blonde man.

Who, again, didn’t always make for bad company, but something about him always made Yamaguchi’s stomach twist nervously.

Tsukishima quiets, and the air fuzzes over with brief static.

“I was… retired for a while.” He answers stiffly, “I had the time to make new faces, so I did.”

“Retired?” Yamaguchi raises a brow. “Do angels get pension?”

“Funny.” The angel rolls his eyes, arms folding over his chest. “Words… don’t translate well into your language. They mean less.” Yamaguchi snorts at that.

“Fine, then. Why were you retired?” he continues, looking skeptical.

Tsukishima says nothing, eyes half-lidded.

“How long were you retired for?” Yamaguchi tries a different angle, voice quizzical with suspicion.

The static shivers through the air again, lifting the hair on Yamaguchi’s arms, but the angel continues to remain infuriatingly silent.

“Fine,” Yamaguchi sighs, slowly edging across the room, “I don’t care. Keep being weird and mysterious.”

Tsukishima’s gaze follows him, thoughtful and slow, before he blinks out of existence right in front of Yamaguchi’s eyes.

There’s a brief smell of burning ozone before the static tenses, zapping Yamaguchi with a tiny electric shock.

Yamaguchi makes a startled noise, body jerking with pained surprise. Disbelievingly, he stares at the place where the angel had just been, chest tight with lingering electricity.

* * *

 

When Yamaguchi had first started working at the bakery, he’d been entirely clueless as to why there were so many people on the employee roster.

It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that they were all students from the nearby college campus, but even so, the reason for the strange amount of employees had continued to baffle him. A bakery as small as Karasuno didn’t need that much upkeep.

Weeks had passed before he’d finally figured it out.

The store closed at five on the weekends, when the days were still young and full of sunlight. One evening, Yamaguchi’d been closing up with Kageyama, when Hinata’d popped his head in through the front door, clad in a navy and orange sports uniform.

“Kageyama,” he’d called, bright and cheery, “Coach Ukai says he’s waiting, and also Tanaka says he’s going to give you a wedgie if you don’t hurry up. I bet him five dollars he wouldn’t do it, so hurry up. I don’t actually have five dollars.”

Kageyama had scowled, tossing his rag down on the counter, before leaning down to grab his gym bag. As he’d shifted it over his shoulder, Yamaguchi’d caught a glimpse of the very same orange-and-navy fabric that Hinata was sporting.

As for Coach Ukai, well – Yamaguchi wasn’t a _gossip_ , but if he was remembering correctly, the man who came in to visit the bakery’s sunny, bespectacled owner on occasion was named Ukai.

\--the last puzzle piece had clicked into place, then.

The volleyball team. Of course. No doubt the list of employees was near identical to the team’s roster. Ukai was close to the bakery owner, and as such…

Clever. Very clever. Definitely not allowed, and probably illegal in some way, but clever nonetheless.

Yamaguchi’d been proud of himself for figuring that one out.

Some time after, the team had managed to set up a makeshift volleyball net in the near-empty lot behind the bakery. Often, on their sparse breaks or after a shift, any of them could be found batting a volleyball back and forth over the net, still clad in their aprons.

Personally, the last time Yamaguchi’d played volleyball had been in high school, so when Hinata had asked him to join in one evening, he’d politely refused.

His ‘no’ had been met with multiple loud noises of protest, and before he knew it, Yamaguchi’d been coerced into playing volleyball with several members of the team. It was never all of them at once—maybe three or four others were working with him at any given time – and eventually, with the individualized practice, he’d become decent at the game.

That wasn’t to say he stood anywhere near equal with any of them, though: the first time he’d been on the receiving end of one of Hinata’s freak spikes, he’d almost fallen over.

Regardless, it was fun, and it filled in the gap between work and sleep that would’ve otherwise been spent watching TV. That, or what would have been homework for his nutrition class, but his professor hadn’t given him any homework since he’d gotten creamed by a mail truck.

Today was different than all the others, however.

He’d been closing the bakery with Hinata and Kageyama, per usual, the sun still hovering bright and brassy in the sky. All things were quiet – a blessed change – so when Hinata makes a surprised noise, Yamaguchi turns to him, absorbing the sight of him jumping up and down so as to peer through the pane of glass set high in the exit door.

“Kageyama,” he calls, bristling with excitement, “Yamaguchi, too—the team’s here! A lot of them!”

With that, he bolts out the door. Moments later, Yamaguchi hears the clamor of multiple voices, punctuated by laughter.

Slowly, he makes his way over to the door, pushing it open.

Hinata was right – what must have been most of the volleyball team was clustered in the mostly empty lot, littered with discarded bookbags and jackets slung over a picnic table.

“Hey!” Hinata turns to him with a blinding smile, eyes unconsciously brightening as Kageyama emerges from behind him, “We’re gonna start a game!” he’s already backing up to where Tanaka’s spinning a volleyball in his hands.

“Come join us,” Hinata invites, bright and happy.

Yamaguchi lets his gaze roam over the faces he’d come to know over time, the corners of his mouth curving upwards.

“Okay,” he says, and takes a step forwards.

* * *

 

“Last point,” Yamaguchi calls, scrawling another tally into his notebook.

He’d sat out some time ago after a nasty fall – he’d managed to get the ball back to his teammates, but at the cost of jamming his elbow – and after that, the game had taken a different turn.

Though they were only in a half-empty, half-fenced lot, with only a makeshift volleyball net and a picnic table as an audience, it seemed that the Karasuno volleyball team only had one setting: intense.

He watches their tense movements, furtive eyes, shifting muscles—and then, finally, a determined nod.

Suddenly, there’s a skid of sneakers against the ground, and they’re moving.

“To me!” Hinata calls, voice rough and high, and Yamaguchi tenses, willing himself to focus—

There’s the sound of the ball through the air, then a resounding _smack_ , and before he can even process what'd just happened, Hinata’s cheering.

Yamaguchi blinks. He’d almost missed Hinata’s spike this time, quick as it was, and he lets a small smile flicker over his face as everyone on Hinata’s side of the net celebrates.

He puts his notebook back in his bag as the team falls out of formation, chatting amongst themselves. The games with them were fun, but far from how he’d imagined a real match to be. Vaguely, Yamaguchi wonders what it would be like to play in a tournament.

“Yamaguchi,” a voice sounds from behind him, and he starts, turning to face the speaker. Asahi smiles at him, kind and thoughtful as he pulls his jacket on.

“Have you ever considered joining the team?” he asks lightly, leaning down to pluck his backpack from the ground. Yamaguchi offers a faint laugh, scratching his cheek.

“I don’t really think I have the time… and I’m not half as good as any of you.” He says mildly. Asahi’s mouth twists into a smile, half-amused, half-sympathetic.

“Well… think about it.” He presses gently, before casting a concerned glance at the steadily darkening sky. “Um—do you want a ride home, by the way? It looks like it might rain.”

Yamaguchi’s face burns with embarrassment as he watches the team disperse behind Asahi. When Hinata looks back to shout a cheerful goodbye, Yamaguchi offers a hesitant wave and a small smile in response.

Asahi thought he should join the team? Yamaguchi feels the heat on his cheeks grow even more. He’d thought about it before, but quickly dismissed the thought, silently reprimanding himself for shooting out of his league. Still, considering it now, the thought of the team’s easy camaraderie, the adrenaline of the game, the team’s evident passion…

“Oh,” he says suddenly, realizing he’d left Asahi’s question unanswered. “No, thank you. I like walking.” He offers a weak smile.

Most days, Yamaguchi did enjoy walking home, but the thunderheads slowly gathering in the sky slowly wear away at his willingness to risk the journey. However, even with the impending rain, he’d rather get a little wet than have to sit in close proximity with well-meaning, kind Asahi and his encouraging insistence.

“Alright,” Asahi says slowly, regarding him with some doubt. “Get home safe, Yamaguchi.” With a wave, he turns on his heel, before following the rest of his team out into the parking lot.

Yamaguchi watches them go in silence, thoughts buzzing and unsure. Would the team want him? Was he good enough to join them? Would he even be _needed_?

Once the lot falls into complete silence, Yamaguchi sighs through his nose, shoulders sagging as he turns back to grab his sweatshirt.

He comes face to face with a stranger.

Yamaguchi’s unable to hold back the yelp that escapes him as he jumps back a pace.

“Sorry,” the stranger laughs, holding his palms up, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

Yamaguchi eyes him, hands unconsciously tensing. Vaguely, he notes a faint smell of burning pine.

“It really does seem like it’s gonna rain, huh?” the stranger shifts his strange, catlike gaze towards the sky, making a thoughtful noise. “Looks like it’s gonna be a big storm.”

When he says nothing, the stranger turns his eyes back towards him. For a moment, Yamaguchi swears he hears the sound of a striking match.

“A friend once told me that rain was just God’s tears,” the stranger continues, voice casual, breaking eye contact to glance at the picnic table behind him. For a moment, there’s silence as he makes his way over to it, grabbing Yamaguchi’s sweatshirt and bag from where they sit in a pile.

Yamaguchi can’t find it in him to protest, struck dumb as the stranger pads back over to him.

“Here,” he offers them to Yamaguchi, who stares at them like they’re foreign objects, before slowly reaching out to take them.

“What do you think of that?” the stranger asks, voice lazy in contrast to his flickering eyes. “What would God have to cry about?” the question brings a slow, dull ache to Yamaguchi’s head.

This was so incredibly, overwhelmingly surreal, and his mouth remains dry of words as he continues to stare blankly at the stranger.

"Cat got your tongue?" he grins, shoving his hands into his pockets. "No worries. I've got all the time in the world."

He doesn't seem all that dangerous, just overbearing and strange - but then again, maybe his appearance was misleading. It was hard to ignore how attractive the stranger was, what with his roguishly mussed black hair and easy, confident stance. Yamaguchi squints, trying to make up his mind. Maybe he was biased. 

Well, no matter what he decided, if things went south he always had Tsukishima to swoop in just in time to save him.

“I have to go,” he finally manages, suddenly grinding back into motion as he hurriedly pulls his sweatshirt on.

“Yamaguchi.” The stranger says, and he stops short, half-in, half-out of his sweatshirt, “say hi to _Tsukishima_ for me.”

Yamaguchi’s stomach plummets. Slowly, he finishes pulling his sweatshirt on, arms finally pushing through the sleeves.

He’s not going to ask how the stranger knows Tsukishima. It was obvious, now – his sudden appearance, the cryptic comments, the hints of smoke in the air. Instead, he eyes him cautiously, clutching his bag close.

“What’s your name?” he finally speaks, faintly, and the stranger grins.

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.” He says, sounding pleased – and then he’s gone, air crackling with the sound of burning leaves.

* * *

 

As off-putting as the stranger had been, he was right about one thing.

Yamaguchi had gotten a grand total of two blocks from the bakery when fat droplets had started to drip onto the ground around him. From there, it’d all been downhill – not minutes later, the rain had evolved into an all-out downpour.

He’d cursed, shielding his head with his nutrition textbook – that was the only thing it was good for now, anyways – to no avail. He’d been soaked in seconds.

When thunder rolls, Yamaguchi purses his lips, quickening his pace. The rain was bad enough without the deafening soundtrack. Pointedly, he ignores the discomfort of his sopping shoes – though it was irritating now, he’d be free of it once within the safety of his own apartment.

If he ever _did_ get back to his apartment, he thinks sourly, narrowing his eyes against a fresh onslaught of droplets. As if in agreement, there’s a flicker of lightning, followed by a responding crash of thunder.

Yamaguchi heaves out a sigh.

He hadn’t thought the rain could get any worse, but of course, nature had to prove him wrong – the wind picks up with a howl, and coupled with the lashing rain and thunder, it sounds like a mocking imitation of some kind of twisted orchestra.

As the rain starts to sting where it hits his skin, he winces, picking up his pace again. Rain was always nice to watch from a window, but being stuck outside in what seemed to be the tale of Noah’s Ark, Part Two was not nearly as pleasant.

The earth lights up yellow again, lightning forking across the sky, thunder booming not even a second later. The lightning is the only thing making the world visible – without it, Yamaguchi would have been stumbling through very, very wet darkness all the way home.

The scenery around him slowly becomes more familiar. Blinking water out of his eyes, Yamaguchi rounds the street corner, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief as he recognizes the pattern of lit windows dotting the side of his apartment building.

Granted, it’s still some distance away, but now the possibility of salvation seems like a reality.

Yamaguchi turns a hard right into the park running parallel to the sidewalk, sneakers slapping against the stone path. Normally, he’d stick to the sidewalk and walk around the park (there was always goose poop everywhere, he didn’t want to deal with it), but right now it made for an appealing shortcut.

The park had been created after many, many complaints from concerned citizens (old people) about there not being a natural space to walk and exercise nearby. After dealing with the persistent nagging for years, the local government had finally given in.

With older adults in mind, the park had been created with the most minimalistic theme the government could get away with. It was all simple – smooth paths, spaced benches, circles of bushes, and sparsely placed trees.

All things considered, it was aesthetically pleasing, if not boring.

However, regardless of its functional, modern design, it still made for an unfamiliar maze in the dark.

Yamaguchi curses as he trips over a tree root, the ground bathed in momentary light as another tongue of lightning lashes the sky. Thunder booms right over it, the two instances rolling into a single moment of sensory overload.

That leaves Yamaguchi unnerved – the air suddenly feels thick and heavy, and he picks up his pace, hurrying through the darkness.

The hair on the back of his neck lifts, then – for a moment, he’s convinced that Tsukishima’s about to appear, and then…

The air grows tight and impossibly silent, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the earth light up once more – dimly, ears clogged with static, he wonders why he doesn’t hear thunder, as well –

His vision goes white.

Yamaguchi feels nothing and everything as the lightning hits him – every molecule in his body screams, shaking apart under the rending force of electricity, muscles drawing tight, tight enough to snap.

He can’t move, not even if he wanted to – his limbs are rigid even as his blood boils to dust, heart slamming against his ribcage before bursting, scattering ragged flesh into the tumult of his ruined chest cavity.

When Tsukishima comes for him, he can’t tell the difference between the angel and the lightning still roaring behind his eyes.

They’re both impossibly bright, both rolling white and yellow, and when Tsukishima finally touches him, his whole body jerks.

The warmth he’d gotten used to is still there, but there’s no gentleness this time – the angel's touch is piercing, blinding, raw and all-consuming. Yamaguchi feels his atoms being strip-searched, shaking faster and faster within the buzz of his dying body.

What he’d once taken to be gold is now visible as a spectrum of brass to white, flecked with deep golds sewing it all together. Tsukishima glitters, all of him, every beam of light vibrating with the hum of the universe.

Tsukishima is the lighting and he’s _not_ – he pulls Yamaguchi close, skin sunburn-hot as he sears gold handprints into his skin. His light digs impossibly deep, gold in Yamaguchi’s core, and he can feel light rise high in his throat, spilling from his mouth and nose, beams of yellow bouncing between each rib.

“ _Oh_ ,” he hears Tsukishima say, raw and wondering – his voice is tinged with **sound** , almost unintelligible, and even as Yamaguchi’s vision flickers, he hears brass bells and rustling wheat –

“—it _**is**_ you.”

The words don’t even register—they mean nothing to him as he shakes apart in the angel’s arms, muscles locked and paralyzed, but for a moment he swears he hears a soft whirring _click_ , a fish-flick gleam of silver skittering behind his eyes.

Before he spirals down into familiar darkness, veins crawling with electricity, he sees one last tongue of lighting split the sky apart.

* * *

 

He wakes to the sight of familiar floral fabric.

Yamaguchi doesn’t even consider moving. Every inch of him crawls with exhausted static, bones raw and aching, and it’s all he can do to breathe shakily in and out. Everything about him feels burnt, inside and out, and his throat itches with a phantom fire as his body slowly putters back to life.

It’s a few minutes before he manages to shift onto his back, immediately going boneless with a gasp of pain. The ceiling spins above him in dizzy circles, and he lies there with his mouth open, wondering faintly if he’s going to pass out again.

He only vaguely remembers what had happened—all that comes to him is a flash of light, a burst of consuming heat, and then…

He can’t think about this right now. Moving is absolutely not an option, so Yamaguchi simply lies prostrate on his grandmother’s couch, making eye contact with a particularly suspicious stain on the ceiling.

When he hears a soft, familiar pop, he manages a weak laugh.

“I’m having déjà vu,” he rasps, eyes roving to where the angel stiffly stands. “This situation is becoming too familiar, Tsukki.” The angel says nothing as he comes closer, pale brows knitted behind his glasses.

“Tsukki?” he repeats quietly, expression disbelieving.

“Easier to say than Tsukishima.” Yamaguchi mutters, letting his eyes fall shut. “Don’t sound so offended.”

Tsukishima hmfs with displeasure, and Yamaguchi hears him shifting above him. When he finally does open his eyes, the angel’s hovering a little closer, expression flickering between a barely noticeable concern and hesitation.

“I don’t think I’ve ever used this couch this much in my life,” Yamaguchi croaks, anxious to break the sudden silence. “Do you sleep on it when you break into my apartment?” the angel blinks, affronted.

“I don’t sleep,” he answers testily, “not while I’m watching you. I stay in your room.”

Yamaguchi makes a faint, strangled noise of protest.

“You watch me sleep?” he accuses, though his tone holds little fire to it.

“How else am I to keep an eye on you?” Tsukishima raises a brow, and Yamaguchi sighs, letting his gaze roam back to the ceiling.

The idea of Tsukishima standing there, watching him sleep, is enough to make his stomach turn uneasily. But, on the flip side… there’s a relief, there, too, knowing that no possible harm could come to him with the angel there.

With a start, he realizes that Tsukishima makes him feel safe —it’s ridiculous, that’s always been Tsukishima’s purpose here – but now that Yamaguchi thinks about it, there’s an unshakeable sense of security that comes with the angel’s presence. He almost laughs.

His chest feels tight again – probably because his heart had given out on him mere hours ago only to be rebuilt cell by cell – but he blames it on the electricity, scalp and arms tingling as Tsukishima’s gaze remains intently focused on him.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi begins with a sigh, feeling dark pulling at the edges of his vision again, “why were you retired?”

The angel remains stock still, betraying nothing, and for a moment, Yamaguchi thinks he’s going to ignore the question again.

“I let someone under my care die.”

Just as Yamaguchi’s about to give up hope, Tsukishima’s voice rings dissonant brass through the air, tinged with anger and shame. Yamaguchi feels his mouth dry up as he watches the angel’s eyes. They flicker with motes of gold, flashing to lightning then to starlight then back again.

“I hid myself. Out of shame, Yamaguchi.” His tone is infinitely bitter, rocky with gravel, and though his face remains impassive, the anguish that resonates through the room is almost enough to make his heart stop again.

Yamaguchi watches him, bright motes of gold skittering around his head in agitated circles, eyes cold and hard. He swallows.

“I’m sorry,” he finally offers, voice hoarse and quiet. He feels guilty for asking, now—the air hangs thick between them, and as Yamaguchi speaks, it becomes unbearably difficult to breathe. “I can’t even imagine.”

Tsukishima straightens up with a start, air ringing around him. He casts Yamaguchi a look—he doesn’t know exactly what emotion his topaz gaze holds, but it makes his skin crawl, teeth chattering—and then he’s gone with a CRACK, louder than his usual buzz of electricity.

Brief flickers of color fizzle in front of Yamaguchi’s eyes, and he lets out a faint gasp of pain, eardrums shrieking in protest of the loud noise. As the air fades to normal again, slowly but surely, Yamaguchi manages to catch sight of three tawny feathers hovering tense in the air.

They spin down towards him, coming to rest on the sofa with a distant silver chime. As he watches them, they fade to gold then back to reality, then back to gold once more. He doesn’t know what they are—doesn’t know what they mean, why Tsukishima always leaves them behind, but they look solid this time—and just as he tenses, mentally preparing himself to sit up, they disappear in an enormous puff of glowing particles.

The golden dust floats gently through the air, scattering flickering light on every surface. As it peppers Yamaguchi’s skin, glittering against every freckle, he smells daffodils, soft light glowing bright on his cheeks.

As a sun slowly rotates in his mind, pulsing with a glimmering light, he finds his slow descent into sleep pinpricked with golden stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you for all your kudos and comments so far!! your feedback is lovely and i hope you're having as much fun with this story as i am


	4. DISTANCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe slowly unravels. Yamaguchi probably needs copious amounts of alcohol.

April bleeds into May with a sigh of color, crocuses and tulips peering from the greenery that’d begun to spread over the bare ground.

For the most part, the days pass without incident, and the monotony of it is almost soothing. School, work, the occasional practice game in the lot, and then back home to study and sleep. It’s easy. Peaceful. For the first time in a while, Yamaguchi finds himself rid of the anxiety of potentially dying in yet another tragic, unlikely accident.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, Yamaguchi had begun to think – Tsukishima had also become a part of this daily routine.

As the sun shone more and more often, Tsukishima seemed to appear with it, as if the warmth that’d begun to soak back into the earth beckoned him close in some way.

It was still a shock whenever he rounded a corner and found Tsukishima there, standing or sitting in odd places (he’d found him in his pantry once – _what?_ ) but he’d slowly reached a state of acceptance. With that leeway, Tsukishima had taken the opportunity to make himself right at home.

He’d pop in at random intervals, often while Yamaguchi was in the middle of something, but even that had become routine.

“How do you afford this apartment?” he’d said once, blinking into existence next to Yamaguchi as he’d been flipping through TV channels. “Your job can’t possibly pay for this as well as school.”

Yamaguchi had barely reacted, simply offering a thoughtful hum as he’d stopped on a channel.

“Parents.” he’d answered vaguely, both of them pausing to watch as One Piece flickers across the screen.

Another time, Yamaguchi had poked his head around the corner, hairbrush in hand, eyeing the angel sitting in his favorite chair.

“Why do you always leave feathers behind?” Tsukishima had blinked at him, bemused, before Yamaguchi clarified, “when you do your beam-me-up-Scotty thing, I mean. Do you have real wings? Are they gold?”

Tsukishima had simply stared, before comprehension dawned on his face.

“Are feathers what you see?” he’d queried, thoughtful, and Yamaguchi nodded.

“Interesting.” The angel had stood, rolling his neck as several motes of golden dust floated upwards. Yamaguchi frowned, pointing the brush at him threateningly.

“You – no, _wait_ , answer my _question_ , don’t – _Tsukki_ —!”

The angel had disappeared, then, leaving behind a puff of downy white feathers.

And yet another time, “Why do you take that course?”

Yamaguchi had jumped that time, pen leaving an unruly black line across his notebook.

“What?” he’d answered, distracted as he valiantly tried to rub the errant ink away. After silently admitting defeat, he’d pointedly looked up at the angel, who’d materialized at the other side of the table.

“Why do you like that course?” Tsukishima had replied, vaguely gesturing at his notebook. “What is it – nutrition? How is that relevant to your field of interest?”

Yamaguchi had tapped the end of his pen against his paper, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought.

“It’s a required course,” he’d finally answered, “I need these credits to graduate.”

Tsukishima had stared. “You’re telling me,” he’d begun dubiously, “that even though you don’t need it for your career, you have to take it anyways?” Yamaguchi had shrugged, glancing back down at his notebook.

“I guess.” he’d answered distantly, attention already drawn back to his meticulously scribbled notes.

Tsukishima had watched him in silence, him and Yamaguchi both focused intently on the assignment in front of them.

* * *

 

“—yes, that should – oh, actually, could you wait a moment? Sorry—“

Yamaguchi puts a hand over the receiver of his phone, casting a look at Tsukishima over his shoulder.

“Did you want anything?” he gestures to the phone, pursing his lips as the angel shakes his head.

“I don’t eat,” he responds, dry, and Yamaguchi lets his hand fall from the phone with a roll of his eyes.

“Yes, sorry—yes, that’s it. Twenty minutes? Alr—okay, thank you.” With a faint smile, he ends the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“You don’t eat,” he rounds on the angel, “or you can’t?”

“I don’t need to,” the angel amends, eyes on the book in his lap. Curious, Yamaguchi wanders over to him, peering over his shoulder from behind the couch.

“So you physically can’t?” Yamaguchi presses, eyes glued to the paper under the angel’s hands. It emits a faint glow, pages rustling in some undetectable wind. The letters seem to slide off the page before his eyes, shifting and indecipherable. He blinks.

“No.” Tsukishima turns his head, barely managing to meet Yamaguchi’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. “I can. I don’t need to.” He closes the book, and it disappears with a flash of light.

There’s no sense to anything Tsukishima does. Such was the way of the universe, Yamaguchi supposed – how was he ever supposed to truly understand something like an angel? Tsukishima was intangible, unknowable, a maelstrom of light and sound barely contained by human skin. The gold that seemed to emanate from him was baffling, the items around him mystifying, his words and presence an enigma. Yamaguchi knows nothing about him, and Tsukishima won’t tell, making the angel nothing but an unsolvable puzzle.

Just when he thinks he’s figured something out, Tsukishima does something to toss him back into confusion, and the mystery rewinds back into a jumbled mess of starlight and color.

There’s no discernible reason for anything he does, either. Yamaguchi doesn’t understand how he came to be, why he appeared to Yamaguchi, why there were rules and numbers and hierarchies that dictated his behavior. Who decided that? What gave Tsukishima his name, his instructions, his existence?

Yamaguchi shakes his head, straightening back up. Having an existential crisis before dinner was not on his agenda for the day.

“Why are you gold?” he blurts suddenly, immediately cursing inwardly. He’d meant to steer away from this topic, not towards it.

“Gold?” Tsukishima swivels to face him, elbow draped over the back of the couch. “I don’t know.” The angel shrugs, blinking as Yamaguchi splutters in response.

“You don’t _know?”_   he echoes dubiously.

“No.” A sigh. “Nothing translates well on Earth. Not language, not color, not sound. I can’t explain anything in a way you'd understand,” his mouth twists into a sardonic smile, “what you see of me could mean anything.”

Yamaguchi gapes, mind whirling. That does answer a lot of his questions, actually – Tsukishima didn’t make sense to him because he wasn’t _supposed_ to. It was likely that nothing Yamaguchi saw or understood of him could ever even begin to cover the full extent of Tsukishima’s being.

The angel’s hesitance to explain things seems reasonable now. Of course the rules in Heaven – or wherever – wouldn’t apply here. There was no way they could.

He doesn’t realize he’s spaced out again until he notices that Tsukishima’s staring at him, amused.

“Um,” Yamaguchi struggles to find words, “but, do you know what you look like? That… you’re gold?”

“Yes.” The angel replies easily, seemingly content to leave it at that. Yamaguchi squints at him.

“But you don’t know why.”

“Nope.”

Yamaguchi stares, and the angel stares right back. He doesn’t blink.

When his doorbell buzzes, he narrows his eyes at Tsukishima one last time before turning on his heel and walking stiffly to the door. His expression quickly turns to something friendly, however, once he comes face to face with the delivery boy standing just outside his door. He exchanges a handful of crumpled bills for a paper bag of food, bidding him goodbye before closing the door with his foot.

When he turns back around, the angel meets his gaze once again, smug and knowing. Yamaguchi pointedly ignores him as he makes his way back over, plopping down next to Tsukishima.

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters, reaching out to grabs the remote from its place atop the coffee table. Yamaguchi pauses, then, torn between channel surfing and opening his bag.

“Here,” he finally says, pushing the remote into the angel’s hands. “Pick something to watch.” He pretends not the notice the look Tsukishima gives him, instead turning his attention back to his food.

Yamaguchi pulls a white container and a pair of chopsticks from the bag, listening to the _click-pop_ of the TV as it turns on, then the shifting blare of voices as Tsukishima flicks through the various programs.

He’d only just begun to eat when the angel stops changing channels, pausing on an unfortunately combination of tinny laughter and a smugly smiling host.

“No,” he says automatically, relinquishing his hold on his chopsticks to try and grab the remote, “no, Tsukki, we’re not watching a game show.”

Tsukishima pointedly holds the remote just out of his reach. “You told me to pick,” he says flatly, gaze glued to the screen.

Yamaguchi strains for a few more moments before sighing, body sagging with defeat. “Fine,” he sulks, silently stuffing his mouth with rice as he watches the screen.

It’s mindless drivel, but Tsukishima’s seemingly riveted, eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out some great mystery. Yamaguchi stares at him, watching his unchanging expression – there’s a faint glimmer of gold visible behind the dark frame of his glasses, and his stomach twists strangely.

Determinedly, he turns his gaze back to his food, popping a dumpling into his mouth. He pointedly ignores the clip of a businessman biting into a doorknob, silently resentful of Tsukishima’s choice of entertainment.

When the screen flashes to a commercial, the angel turns his gaze to Yamaguchi, eyes falling to the carton of food in his hands.

“That looks disgusting,” he says bluntly, ignoring the affronted look Yamaguchi gives him.

“What?" Yamaguchi says indignantly, chopsticks clicking. “It’s delicious. You don’t get to come into my apartment and make me watch bad game shows and _then_ insult my food.” He jabs his chopsticks in Tsukishima’s direction, who disregards them, looking fascinated.

“What is that supposed to be?” the angel gestures at the food, and Yamaguchi glances down at it.

“Yaki-gyoza?” he replies hesitantly, “have you never had it before?” Tsukishima’s brow creases, and he leans forward.

“Jiaozi? That doesn’t smell like what I remember,” he says suspiciously, eyeing the food as if it’s about to jump out and attack him.

“Here,” Yamaguchi holds the container out to him, raising a brow, “try it.”

Tsukishima stares at it dubiously, before clicking his fingers – seemingly out of nowhere, a pair of gleaming chopsticks appear in his hand. Yamaguchi squints at them before deciding better of asking.

Cautiously, the angel reaches out, delicately lifting a dumpling with a careful hand before cautiously popping it into his mouth. Yamaguchi watches as he chews thoughtfully, expression morphing to one of vague distaste.

“This,” he declares, "isn't real jiaozi."

“It is too,” Yamaguchi protests, pulling the carton back, “you just—when was the last time you ate dumplings?” he accuses. Tsukishima’s gaze focuses off to the side, somewhere in the middle distance.

“600 AD? 700 AD?” he hazards a guess, and Yamaguchi’s mouth falls open.

“The—what?” he stammers out, eyes widening, “Just how old are you?” Tsukishima regards him with a lazy amusement, chopsticks falling to dust in his hands.

“Angels don’t die,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, “and we have always existed.”

“So… forever?” Yamaguchi says after a pause, voice halting. A dull ache starts to pound behind his eyes. Headaches seemed to be a frequent occurrence with the angel around.

Tsukishima smiles.

“That means – okay, what, you – like – you’re immortal? You’ve been around forever?” Yamaguchi continues, voice high. “Since before humans existed?”

“Yes.” Tsukishima answers.

Yamaguchi falls silent, staring at him in disbelief. It seemed like an existential crisis was on the agenda for the afternoon, after all.

There’s so much – that’s so much to absorb all at once, and his head pounds as he tries to process this new tidbit of information. The young man sitting in front of him – bespectacled, smug, lanky and pale – was in fact, an immortal entity made of gold and stardust and incomprehensible flashes of light.

Distantly, Yamaguchi realizes he probably needs a drink. It’s incredible, however. More than incredible. Amazing, actually.

“Did human evolve from monkeys?” he blurts.

The angel quirks a brow, before huffing out an amused noise. “No. You-- share a common ancestor,” Tsukishima replies steadily, “any other questions?”

Yamaguchi’s eyes remain glued to him, body practically buzzing with excitement. Does he have more questions? More than he can count. Slowly, he sets his forgotten dumplings on the coffee table, turning his full, undivided attention towards the angel.

“Yeah,” he breathes, leaning in closer, “tell me about _kitsune._ ”

The angel opens his mouth to speak.

* * *

 

“--… the concept of onmyoji sprung from tales of angel sightings. Yokai are angels, and angels are yokai. All is one and the same.” Tsukishima finishes tiredly, eyes never straying from Yamaguchi’s starstruck expression. The late afternoon had faded into evening as Yamaguchi plied him with questions, one after the other, listening to the answers Tsukishima rolled back out at him with barely suppressed enthusiasm.

“Wow,” he says, voice distant with wonder. “You—“ he glances towards the darkened window, as if suddenly realizing how late it’d gotten, “—how do you remember all of that? All the folk tales?” Tsukishima shrugs.

“I'm part of them.” He says.

Yamaguchi blinks several times, processing this – of course he would remember everything. The whole ‘glowing, immortal ethereal ball of light’ thing surely made it hard to forget things.

“Can you, um—“ Yamaguchi racks his brain for words – he’d exhausted all his history questions, it’d seemed – before focusing his curious gaze on the angel. “Can you do magic? Like – with the book, and the chopsticks, and—the whole… electricity thing?”

“Magic?” Tsukishima echoes faintly, “If you word it like that, then I suppose--“

“Angel magic?” Yamaguchi interrupts with a gasp, “How can you use it? What is it? What can you do?” Tsukishima eyes him with a lofted brow, taking the rapid-fire questions well into stride.

“I can do… many things. To list them all would take more time than we’ve already spent talking.” He casts a pointed glance at the window.

“Show me something,” Yamaguchi’s already moving on, eyes shining, “please?”

“Show you something?” a bemused blink.

“Yeah. Something cool. There’s – there’s an open space on the roof, I think, if you can’t do it here—“

Tsukishima’s eyes narrow to slits, gold just barely visible behind his lowered lashes. Yamaguchi trails off into silence under his stare, mouth still open.

“Fine.”

The angel reaches out for him, warm fingers encircling his wrist – he hears a familiar _pop_ , except this time it’s behind his eyes, clogging his head with a sudden altitude change, black fizzling over his vision –

\-- and then he finds himself tumbling onto the rough asphalt of the building’s roof, a surprised yelp of pain tumbling from his mouth. Almost immediately, he shoots back up, stumbling as the world spins around him.

“Whoah,” Yamaguchi says dizzily, blinking colored lights from his eyes.

The angel watches him as he rights himself, shaking his head to clear it of cloying electricity.

“That was cool.” When Yamaguchi finally manages to rebalance himself, he gapes at the angel, admiring and wonderstruck.

The night closes in around them, chill and breezy, scattered stars winking down at them from the sky. For a moment, Yamaguchi’s distracted as he stares up – in the city, stars were a welcome, if not rare sight.

Tsukishima follows his gaze upwards, the lens of his glasses glinting with far-off light.

“Do you want to see something else?” the angel speaks, voice sounding a little strange. Yamaguchi shifts his eyes over to him, noting his hidden irises behind black frames, the unreadable expression on his face, his head tilted upwards.

“Sure,” he answers, surprised by his own hushed tone, “I… yeah.”

“Hm.” The angel hums out a thoughtful noise. “Look, then.”

Yamaguchi tears his gaze away from Tsukishima, flicking back up to the sky—and then his stomach plummets, head spinning with a sudden vertigo.

The angel’s palm faces the sky, air warping around his fingers. The stars gleam brighter and brighter, light suddenly hard and blinding, and then—

Yamaguchi’s not entirely sure what he’s seeing, but the stars tremble as the angel brushes them away like sand, indigo rippling in the holes they’d left behind. The sky starts to pulse, almost as if there’s something large moving behind it, and then – then there’s a slow rift opening in the sky, rumbling and distant, and the air goes quiet.

A swirling wind whips around them, quiet and whispering as velvet black falls in curtains above them. Where there’d once been dim, light-polluted darkness, a wide, ripped-fabric tear flutters in the sky.

Innumerable stars gleam through the raw gap, impossibly close and bright, distant galaxies turning in slow, silent circles. They move, flicking from side to side like so many pondskaters flittering over a lake’s surface – they look _alive_ , almost, fading and brightening in steady rhythms.

“I—“ Yamaguchi licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry, “how are you—?”

“I’m just showing you.” The angel says, voice suddenly distant and tinny, as if coming from some far-off place. “Nothing more.” Yamaguchi spares a glance over at him, finally managing to tear his gaze away from the sky, and – Tsukishima’s _glowing_ , light pulsing in the same patterns as they sky above.

When the angel looks back at him, Yamaguchi swears he sees nebulae spinning in his eyes. With the universe rotating above them, impossibly massive and bright, the weight of his insignificance settles heavy in his throat.

They’re close to the galaxies, seemingly almost close enough to touch, clouds of stardust shifting in some distant wind. Moons spin on their axes, moving through the sky’s rift and past his eyes as if he could pluck them from the sky like fruit.

“That’s not what our star maps look like,” Yamaguchi blurts, eyes following the progress of a streaking meteor, “these—aren’t our constellations.”

“I’ve told you before,” the angel responds softly, eyes fixed on something white and glowing, “you see what you want to see.”

Yamaguchi looks at him again, imprints of stars burning behind his eyelids. Even with his half-blinded eyes, he can see Tsukishima slowly fade out of existence, then back once more, solid and bright.

He looks back up at the sky.

Somewhere, past a cluster of twirling meteorites, a single star glows brighter and brighter.

“Is that—“ Yamaguchi begins, chest heavy with some great truth, “are you—“

“It’s very cold up there, Yamaguchi,” the angel interrupts, voice blurring over with radio static, “and there are many of us.”

The look Tsukishima gives him makes his heart freeze. Distantly, he hears a muted roaring in his ears, the sound of boiling stars ringing in his skull.

“Did you think humans were alone in the universe?” the angel’s gaze glitters with amusement, starlight washing his features out with an unnatural glow. “That would make for a lonely existence, don’t you think?”

With that, he waves a dismissive hand, and the universe’s doors slam shut.

Yamaguchi’s mouth hangs open as the sky sews itself back together. Scant, dim stars slowly blink back into existence, infinitely dull in comparison to the hidden galaxies swirling behind their veil.

That…

That’s a lot to process. His mind overflows with information, with thundering waterfalls of stars, with the echoing glint in the angel’s eyes.

“I—what—did you just tell me that aliens exist? Are you an alien?” Yamaguchi suddenly speaks, blustering, words unsure and disbelieving.

“No,” Tsukishima rolls his eyes, and the tense air slowly starts to relax. “I’m not an alien.” Yamaguchi squints at him.

“Are you sure?” he asks dubiously.

“Yes, I’m—“ a sigh, “I’m sure. Look—stars are _significant_.” The angel draws near, and Yamaguchi instinctively tenses. “Hold still.”

Yamaguchi freezes as Tsukishima extends a hand, noting the pale light still hovering at his fingertips. For a moment, he’s convinced that the angel’s about to knock him out, and he squeezes his eyes shut. A moment of nervous silence passes, and then Yamaguchi feels a warm fingertip gently brushing across his cheek.

He opens his eyes.

“Orion’s Belt,” the angel says suddenly, eyes trained intently on his face. His finger skims across Yamaguchi’s skin, a tingling line of electricity following in its wake, “Aries,” another traced line, looping and angular, “Perseus.”

With a start, Yamaguchi realizes he’s invisibly connecting his _freckles_.

“Delphinus,” Tsukishima continues, over the bridge of his nose, “Hercules.” He stops on Yamaguchi’s other cheek, gaze briefly flickering to meet his eyes.

Yamaguchi can’t move under his touch, not even if he’d wanted to, rooted to the ground as the angel’s eyes flicker with a secret fire.

“Pavo.” His voice is quieter, now, fingertip continuing its journey down his face. Yamaguchi swallows hard as it passes over his jaw, over his pounding pulse and down to his throat, “Lyra,” at his collarbone, “Pisces,” trailing to the clothed slope of his shoulder.

“Libra.” The angel’s voice is almost a whisper now, quiet, and Yamaguchi can’t wrench his gaze away, “Pegasus.” A touch to his other shoulder.

Yamaguchi can see stars swirling in his eyes, deep flecks of gold spinning around his pupils. He exhales a shaky breath, mind suddenly devoid of thought.

“Corona Austrina,” a touch to his upper arm, “Corona Borealis.” A touch to the other arm.

His heart thuds against his ribs, an imaginary wind blowing the sound of rustling leaves and windchimes past his ears.

“Phoenix.”

When Tsukishima’s palm presses flat against his chest, his breath stutters to a halt. There’s something hidden behind the angel’s irises, empty and deep, guttering with a slow-burning insistence. An undercurrent of sadness lingers there, too, barely discernible under the soft bell-ringing of his voice.

Yamaguchi’s head spins – there’s something there, twined in with the last word, something desperate—

“You,” the angel begins, hushed as his hand falls from Yamaguchi’s chest, “have been favored.”

The only sound that follows is the whistling wind blowing through the roof’s chimney stacks.

“Favored?” he repeats, voice faint, “what do you mean?”

Yamaguchi can feel his pulse thudding in his head even as a feeling of detachment hits him. He blinks dizzily at the angel, mouth fuzzy – it feels like he’s seeing Tsukishima from outside his body, miles away, twirling with the cosmos in the sky.

The smile the angel levels at him is small and secret.

“You are made,” he begins haltingly, “of everything else.”

Yamaguchi stares at him.

“The amount of energy in the universe has never changed.” Tsukishima lifts his gaze towards the sky. “When something dies, it releases its energy.” He pauses again, “there is – something called – a _kernel_ , if you will. It’s at the center of every living thing.”

Yamaguchi stares some more.

“When you die,” he repeats, expression unreadable, “the energy is released back into the universe, but the… kernel remains intact.” With a faint sigh, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The—the kernel then pulls in any uncatalogued energy from around it and draws it close, forming something new.”

_What?_

“You,” the angel rounds on him again, “are made of many, many things.”

“Oh,” Yamaguchi finally says, stunned, “why—why does that mean that I’m—favored?” he says weakly, feeling nausea twist in his gut.

“There are… many things that are considered alive.” If Yamaguchi didn’t know better, he’d think that the angel’s expression held a soft sadness. “Ocean waves. The wind. Clouds.” Yamaguchi blinks.

“You could have been remade as anything,” Tsukishima’s gaze drops to his freckled cheeks once more, “but someone took the care to mark you in each life so you’d always return as a human.”

Yamaguchi’s mouth opens, then closes.

If he’d thought himself confused before, he doesn’t know what he is now. A stinging numbness tingles through each of his limbs even as his skull buzzes, brain barely comprehending this slew of new information.

How was he meant to absorb all of this? With his entire universe turned on its head, it was hard enough to breathe, let alone to comprehend the inner workings of mortality. And… reincarnation, apparently.

“Okay.” Yamaguchi finally says, voice high and shaking. “Okay. So… reincarnation is a thing. Got it.”

Tsukishima eyes him doubtfully, before heaving a sigh, hand moving to his temple. Yamaguchi stares blankly at his eyes – drawn to them, almost, as if searching for some modicum of stability.

“I may have said too much.” The angel laments, gaze thoughtful. “These things are… often difficult to explain, as well as… difficult to understand.”

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi says faintly, “maybe a little.”

The angel stares at him for several heartbeats, before uttering yet another defeated sigh.

“Come,” he says, extending a hand to wrap fingers around Yamaguchi’s wrist, “I probably shouldn’t say anything else.”

“Mhm.” Yamaguchi’s dizzy gaze drops to the angel’s hand, “probably.”

Tsukishima blinks at him, before there’s a quiet _pop_ , and they both flicker out of existence.

High above the roof, one star gleams brighter than the rest.

* * *

 

 **[** **TSUKISHIMA, RANK IV GUARDIAN** **]**

Yamaguchi had accepted the new information with more ease than expected. Granted, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time staring blankly at the ceiling before Tsukishima had finally taken pity on him and put him to sleep.

Humans were simultaneously the most fragile and the most resilient creatures Tsukishima’d ever known. Yamaguchi had woken up as usual, pulled on his clothes and eaten breakfast, before heading to work as if he hadn’t had his entire perception of reality torn apart the night before.

Maybe he was suppressing it. Tsukishima couldn’t actually tell.

Still, as he watches Yamaguchi meticulously stack a display of colorful cookies, he can’t feel anything amiss. His Glow remains as bright as ever, silver and shifting in familiar patterns.

The angel feels a pang in his chest.

With the human body he’d stuffed himself into, Tsukishima was prone to experiencing sudden, involuntary moments of unnatural emotion. Where he was used to experiencing things slow and meaningful, stretched out over creaking eons, humans felt things like flashes of fire. The first time he’d cried had been a shock, to say the least.

It was difficult to control the things he wasn’t used to feeling. At first, Tsukishima hadn’t even realized that his facial expressions betrayed his emotions until others started reacting strangely to them.

Since then, he’d made every effort to control them, but given the transient nature of human emotion, he hadn’t always been successful.

Now, Tsukishima prides himself on being able to mask his facial expressions. For the most part.

The fact that something as small and insignificant as human emotion could render something like Tsukishima nearly powerless is amusing, in some sort of twisted way.

That makes him all the more impressed with Yamaguchi’s seemingly perfect control.

He’s making conversation with the cashier (orange, bright orange, Glow fizzling with citrus and ginger), smiling and laughing as the discussion progresses. Tsukishima squints.

When the baker pops in to join them, dark-eyed and impassive, (licorice – navy and black, speckled with a quiet night wind), he almost doesn’t notice when someone flickers into sight next to him.

Tsukishima doesn’t even look at the newcomer, doing nothing but noting the maple-incense-smoke that follows his entrance.

(Things manifested strangely on Earth. They always had. Smells? Colors? Sound? Angels existed on planes far, far above that simplicity.)

“You,” the other angel begins, voice edging on smug, “are in a _load_ of trouble.”

Tsukishima’s head whips around, disbelief flashing briefly across his face.

“What?” he asks, incredulous. The other angel hums, staring at the people clustered around the cash register before answering.

“There’s an archangel on Earth,” he responds, casual as can be, “and he’s not happy with you.”

Tsukishima gapes at him, mind whirling. An archangel? Which one? Archangels hadn’t touched down on Earth since-- since the death of the _Prophet_. For a moment, he simply stares, stunned into utter silence.

“Why?” he finally manages, voice cracking. “I’m doing my job. And I haven’t sensed an archangel’s presence,” he adds, dubious. The other angel laughs.

“You’re not doing a very _good_ job,” he comments, smiling, and Tsukishima scowls. “Ah,” he sighs, then, resting his hands at the back of his head, “you’re more out of touch with Heaven than we thought.”

“Watch it,” Tsukishima grinds out, even as his stomach roils with anxiety, “you know I’m still looking, Ku _roo_.”

The angel – Kuroo – chuckles again, hands shifting to lace fingers behind his neck.

“Do you have to call me that? I hate human names.” His expression flickers for a moment, then, and he looks unusually serious. “I was… concerned.” Kuroo’s face flashes to something somber. Pitying, even. Tsukishima swallows. "He wants to speak with you."

“What about…” Tsukishima glances back at Yamaguchi, brow furrowed, “what about him? I can’t just leave. He’s… _unlucky_.”

“So we’ve noticed,” Kuroo says dryly, before flashing Tsukishima another smile full of teeth. “He’ll be safe here. Trust me.” When Tsukishima gives him a look, he sighs, expression twisting to something faux-offended.

“Trust me,” he repeats. “There’s another angel here.” Tsukishima blinks, confused.

“Excuse me?” he answers, testy. “The only angels here are you and I.”

Kuroo’s expression falls flat, and for a moment, something unreadable flickers through his eyes.

“No,” he replies carefully, “there’s – have you really not noticed? He's settled here. _At this bakery_ , Tsukishima."

Tsukishima’s mouth goes dry. He has no idea what Kuroo’s talking about. How could he have missed another angel in such close proximity? Kuroo studies him cautiously, before huffing out a breath.

“Wow,” he mutters, “alright. Come on.” He gives Tsukishima a pointed look, who purses his lips in response.

 They both flicker out of sight without a sound.

* * *

 

“You,” the archangel says, examining his nails, “are a wild card.”

Tsukishima stares at him, voice stuck in his throat. If he could respond, he would, but upon his arrival the archangel had immediately muted him.

(Tsukishima remembers this particular angel very well. He’s a tool.)

When the archangel finally spares him a glance, smiling beatifically, Tsukishima barely refrains from rolling his eyes.

In the In-Between, angels were required to keep their human faces. It was neither Heaven nor Earth, but served as a gateway between them. To truly pass through it and back into Heaven would’ve required shedding their faces and submitting themselves to the unpredictability of Time’s Grip – and that would mean getting spat back out to who-knows-where on any timeline (Time was a fickle woman) – and Tsukishima could not afford to risk that right now.

“I heard someone’s been spilling secrets,” the archangel _tsks_ , bending down to Tsukishima’s level, “to a _human_ —one you’ve gotten attached to, no less!”

Tsukishima feels a worm of anxiety twist through his stomach. He blinks up at the archangel as he crouches, eyes narrowing as they come face-to-face.

He doesn’t move – can’t move, really, from his position on the floor, bound in place with the grey matter that floated through the In-Between. Normally, this wouldn’t happen, but this particular archangel was the biggest dick of them all, with a power complex to boot. (He’d had the audacity to call himself the _Grand King_ amongst the archangels. And, well—the most infuriating thing was that he fit the title perfectly.)

“I’m going to keep you here for review,” He smiles, all kindness and sunshine, “before you start inviting humans into Heaven, or something.” A musical laugh follows, and he lets his gaze sweep over Tsukishima one last time before he straightens, leveling a bright gaze at where Kuroo’s hovering uncomfortably in the background.

“Look after him for me? It seems that I have to do this job myself.” The archangel says, tilting his head down at Tsukishima. “I won’t be long. I just have to assess exactly how much damage this Guardian’s done.”

With that, he clicks his fingers, and the fog clears from Tsukishima’s throat.

“You’ve lost touch with us,” the archangel says before he can speak, eyes glittering hard and thoughtful. “You didn’t even know I was here. You can no longer sense the Guardians around you. Perhaps…” he trails off, gaze drifting upwards, “perhaps you’ll have to be Remade. You’ve been down here too long, Tsukishima. Your failures reflect heavily upon you.”

Tsukishima’s blood runs cold.

The last time there’d been a Remaking was when the Earth was still new. The very force of it had shook the skies, hurling a shattering energy down to the world below.

(It’d been devastating. Most of the life on Earth had died as a result. Though, if dinosaurs had continued to exist, it was likely humans would never have had a chance to survive.)

It was, in effect, a hard reset—he would be extracted, picked apart and then put together in a new cluster of stars. Chances were, if he were to be subjected to it, he’d lose his collection of faces and be reassigned to a different world.

“I’m—“ he finally manages, voice low, “I’m still looking. If—I’m not sure of something, yet. Once I finish this assignment, if you really must…” he swallows, “let me complete my task. Then I’ll go, if you need me.”

The archangel regards him in silence, lips quirking with a wry curiosity.

“Very well,” he waves his hand dismissively, “but for the time being, you'll stay here. It’s a pity—you were being considered for permanent stationing. But, _ah,_ then you had to go and corrupt your Glow with—“

“No more.” Tsukishima interrupts, voice suddenly forceful. The archangel smiles. “I know. I know what I’ve done. I’ll see this through, however. It’s my job. I’ll keep him safe.”

He pulls in a slow breath, feeling stray particles of stardust fill his lungs. He doesn’t want the archangel to touch down on Earth, doesn’t want him to talk to Yamaguchi, doesn’t want him disturbing the peace that’d finally settled down on the small city below.

But the rules of hierarchy were there to be followed, and even as both Kuroo and the archangel shoot him a dubious look of amusement, his pride glows warm in his chest. The archangel finally shrugs.

“Your choice,” he hums, before brushing glittering grey motes from his chest, “but we’ll see. You still need to be examined.” The same kind smile flickers over his face, and he waves a hand in cheery farewell. “Until next time, my dear Guardians.”

And then he’s gone. Both Kuroo and Tsukishima close their eyes automatically as the not-ground shakes underneath them, a cloudy roar blowing dust and earth in every direction.

When Tsukishima opens his eyes, Kuroo’s staring down at him, worry flickering deep in his eyes.

“Maybe it would be best if you were Remade.” He says slowly, folding his arms over his chest. “You—he’s right, you have immersed yourself too deeply here. Obsession isn’t—isn’t healthy—“

“That’s enough.” Tsukishima’s voice rings clipped and cold, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead of him. “It’s not obsession. I’m doing my job.”

With a sigh, Kuroo crouches in front of him. The look in his eyes is enough to make Tsukishima’s stomach twist with anxiety, and he pointedly frowns, turning his head away. He doesn’t want concern, or pity, or examination. Not from Kuroo. Not from an archangel. And especially not from Heaven.

“Tsukishima,” the other angel says, voice bordering on concern, “I don’t want to see you Fall. No one does. Don’t forget where your home is.”

Tsukishima purses his lips, shifting his gaze to the rippling clouds underneath him. There’s nothing he can see down there, past the In-Between, no view of green-and-blue or twinkling stars visible through the fogbank before his eyes.

“I won’t Fall.” He says bitterly.

As the grey turns solidly around them, he thinks of his pounding heart, the shift and rustle of his hair, his stomach roiling with nausea. These were all things that belonged to humans. An angel had no place stepping over the line and into that realm.

With a start, he realizes that he may be falling, after all.

* * *

 

When Yamaguchi comes home, right on time (7:15 exactly, as usual), he’s surprised to find Tsukishima’s usual spot empty.

Usually, the angel would be perched carefully on Yamaguchi’s favorite armchair – which the angel had claimed for himself, evidently – but today, it remains forlornly empty, devoid of the soft glow that often clung to its fabric.

The apartment is quiet and dim without Tsukishima.

He shakes his head, shrugging his shoulder bag off and dumping it onto the couch, before making his way into the kitchen with a muted sigh.

When he runs into a stranger sitting atop one of his kitchen stools, he stops in his tracks.

By now, he’s used to strangers popping in and out, as well as the shock of coming face to face with a cosmic being with no sense of subtlety or personal space. He’s more tired than surprised, honestly.

“Can I help you?” he asks wearily, leaning against the wall. The stranger looks up at him and smiles, kind and unassuming.

Yamaguchi can’t see anything particularly strange about him, but he automatically squints, as if looking right into the sun. His lungs feel heavy with humidity, suddenly, like a heavy summer day had just dropped into his apartment.

“Hm,” the stranger says, regarding him with a startlingly piercing gaze, “you’re Yamaguchi, right?”

A careful pause.

“Yes,” Yamaguchi answers, crossing his arms.

It’s probably another angel. Definitely another angel. Yamaguchi thinks, distractedly, he might have to find some sort of repellent. Bug spray, maybe.

“Well, then!” the stranger stands, feet tapping on the kitchen tile, “Tsukishima had to take a… ah, a temporary leave of absence. I’m here to look after you in his place.”

The angel’s smile burns holes in the air. Yamaguchi can’t look at it.

As he averts his gaze to the side, his brow creases with worry – did Tsukishima abandon him? Did he decide to go back to Heaven? Was he injured? In trouble? With all the thoughts streaking through his mind, he doesn’t even notice as the angel draws closer.

“Yamaguchi,” he hums, and Yamaguchi snaps back to attention, “don’t think too hard. You’ll blow a fuse in your brain.”

He stares at the angel, unsure, worry still lying heavy and molten in the back of his throat.

“Alright,” he says, unsteadily, “I—okay. That’s fine. Is Tsukishima okay?”

The angel waves away his concern with a scoff, another laugh escaping him, bright and genuinely amused.

“He’s fine. Don’t worry so much about him. What’s important here is your well-being, after all.”

Yamaguchi remains silent once more. While he was used to the electric shocks and atmospheric changes that came with Tsukishima’s presence, this one felt heavier somehow, as if something was sitting on his chest. He blinks, suddenly feeling on edge.

“What can I call you?” he asks, voice cautious, “your—your name, I mean. A human one. I know I wouldn’t be able to say your, um... your real one.”

The angel smiles at him, all teeth.

“A good question,” he muses, looking down at his feet. “This face…” the angel falls into contemplative silence, as if recalling something from some distant memory, before looking back up with the same smile stretched across his face. “You can call me Oikawa, okay? That’ll do for now.”

He was an angel. There was no way he could harbor malicious intent—they were supposed to be guardians, after all, weren’t they?

Still, there’s no way to describe the foreboding lying on Yamaguchi’s tongue, eyes hesitant and unsure.

Before he can speak again, the angel interrupts him:

“Sorry to leave you so soon,” he says, what seems to be disappointment flashing across his face, “but I have other things to attend to. Give me a shout if you need help. I heard that you’re… prone to getting yourself in trouble.”

Yamaguchi’s face burns with embarrassment as the angel offers a sly wink.

“Until next time, Yamaguchi.”

And then he’s gone—Yamaguchi’s not sure why, but he squeezes his eyes shut, hearing a distant _boom_ rumbling in his ears.

When he finally opens them again, the stool’s empty, covered with ash and a solid, smoking burn mark etched into the wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, the plot thickens
> 
> it's a bumpy ride from here on out, so please be patient with me!! thanks again as always for reading


	5. COSMOS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their reasons.

A week passes without incident.

It’s precisely seven days, on the dot—they’re peaceful, for the most part, though they ring with an uneasy emptiness. With Tsukishima’s silent absence and the archangel’s seemingly invisible guardianship, Yamaguchi found himself in possession of his previous sense of privacy and comfortable solitude.

It unnerved him. After only two days of coming home to an empty apartment, he’d realized just how much he’d gotten used to the constant company. As invasive as the angel’s presence could be, it assuaged a sense of loneliness Yamaguchi never knew he’d harbored. The company of a _divine being_ had slowly become commonplace in his everyday life, it seemed, and without it he found himself floundering for some sort of new routine.

Despite Hinata’s constant invitations to lunch with him and Kageyama; to practice with the team; to go to the beach; Yamaguchi found himself reluctant to agree. Partly because he didn’t want to be a third wheel (dealing with those two _at work_ was bad enough), but also because being in the company of the team only served to remind him of how much he wanted to join them.

Asahi hadn’t approached him again, thank goodness. Though grateful for the lack of his pressure, Yamaguchi then found himself left to stew in his own juices – which, in the end, was worse than the constant encouragement. With his newfound space, both physical and emotional, it was all too easy to get lost in his own head. With each passing day, the persistent thought of _what if, what if_ rose closer to the surface of his mind.

He _wanted_ – wanted so much he could almost feel it, so much that he could almost imagine what it would be like to finally belong to a tight-knit group of friends.

Yamaguchi wasn’t friendless, but he’d been a wallflower all throughout his adolescence, making him practically invisible to the rest of the people around him. Often, the only time his peers deigned to speak to him would be to tease him: his freckles, his introversion, his seemingly unwavering devotion to his schoolwork—these were all frequently subjected to ridicule.

That wasn’t to say he took any of it lying down. Even with his shy kindness, there remained a sour streak of sardonicism under it all, allowing him to brush away the comments like they were nothing. Graduating high school had been nothing but a relief, to say the least.

Moving away from home and off to college had presented him with entirely new opportunities. Though he remained quiet, he’d made friends of his own within his classes—and combined with his job at the bakery, it’d only been a matter of time before he’d managed to spin himself a shaky web of social circles.

Joining the volleyball team would mean committing himself to a more intimate set of friendships. Though he wasn’t adverse to the idea – in fact, it was something he’d wanted – the question of _am I good enough_ remained prominent enough to hold him back. It was difficult to see Hinata’s disappointed face with his every gentle refusal, but it would be harder to open himself to something promising only to end up falling flat. He was content to simply live as he did, with a familiar, goal-oriented routine.

Rather, he _had_ been content, but then an otherworldly being just _had_ to drop into his life and ruin everything.

That, combined with the fact that he’d technically died several times since (three? Three times now. He still had nightmares), had turned his entire world and perception of reality on its head. The rules of his life had been rewritten, it seemed – quite literally, in the cases of his deaths – and as loathe as he was to admit it, Yamaguchi had been shaken to his very core.

Maybe it was a sign. Maybe he did need to change the way he lived – it surely didn’t do well to hole yourself up in your apartment, but it was what Yamaguchi knew best, and he clung to it stubbornly. Still – he’d been exposed to adrenaline, to stars and the workings of the universe, to great truths and a deeper understanding: who was to say he couldn’t adapt to a lifestyle change?

When Tsukishima returned, he noted, he’d have to ask for his opinion.

“Ah, I can see the gears in your head turning.”

Yamaguchi hears the lilting voice before he feels a sudden gust of wind, papers flying every which way. He watches them go helplessly, hair sticking up in all directions, “—something on your mind?”

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi says, breathless as he combs a hand through his hair, “I was, uh—wondering where you were.” Without making eye contact, he kneels down, gathering his notes back into his arms.

“Sorry to have left you by yourself,” Oikawa hums, smiling as Yamaguchi straightens back up, “but I had some important work to do.” The archangel stretches, eyes bright and thoughtful as he looks up at the ceiling. “I know you’re used to Tsukishima hanging around, but _I_ can do my job without pestering you. You’re in good hands.”

Papers clutched in hand, Yamaguchi considers the archangel with a sudden curiosity. It was true—he hadn’t once seen Oikawa, not even out of the corner of his eye.

Luck had seemed to be on his side in the wake of his absence, as well: earlier that week, he’d decided to skip grocery shopping, only to later find out that a tree had fallen in the store lot; there’d been an accident at the bus stop the one day he’d decided to walk; a rabid animal had been caught on the trail Yamaguchi used for jogging the very same day he’d stayed home to clean.

All pure luck. Probably.

“I’m… glad to hear it,” he says hesitantly, placing the papers neatly in their original spot, “how—how is Tsukishima, by the way? Is he going to come back?” he adds, then, feeling the beginnings of embarrassment burning his ears.

Oikawa levels his gaze back down at him, eyes suddenly hard and glittering. Yamaguchi feels unease stir in his abdomen—and then it’s gone, and the smile slowly returns to the archangel’s face, benign as always.

“Sure, he’ll come back,” he shrugs, “soon, maybe. Why, do you want him back? Am I not good enough for you?” his smile is all teeth, then, voice bordering just on the sour side of teasing. Yamaguchi raises his hands defensively, letting out a weak laugh.

“No, that’s—you’re fine. I don’t mind you,” Oikawa’s expression twists with amusement, “it’s just—you know, I’m used to him, and he—makes okay company, and… I’m just a little worried, you know?” he finishes lamely, flustered as Oikawa’s gaze turns thoughtful once more. When the archangel stands, sliding off the stool he’d been perched on (it’s smoldering again. Damn it. He’d finally replaced the seat just the other day), Yamaguchi tenses, eyes wary.

“So you like him, yeah?” When Yamaguchi opens his mouth to protest, he laughs, coming to a halt in front of him. “Why are you so embarrassed? You’re supposed to like him. He’s meant to take care of you.”

Yamaguchi’s mouth clicks shut as he averts his eyes. The archangel’s gaze is blinding, even with no obvious light—maybe it’s a weird angel thing. A translation error, or something. Whatever Tsukishima had called it.

“Do you mind if I do something?” the archangel continues, gesturing vaguely to Yamaguchi’s head, “I know it’s sudden, but—it’s important, and I need your permission.”

Yamaguchi stares at the angel’s chin, unable to make eye contact. That definitely sounded suspicious, but so far, Oikawa hadn’t shown any sign of malicious intent. He blinks several times, thinking it over – if it was necessary, who was he to refuse? Even so, the gesticulation towards his head made him nervous. Was the angel going to rifle through his brains?

He eyes Oikawa for another moment, before making a vague noise of assent. If the archangel was bringing it up so suddenly, then it must hold some great significance.

“Sure,” Yamaguchi finally says, uneasy, “if you need to.”

“Oh, good. Thank you, Yamaguchi.” The archangel beams, drawing closer – then he’s cupping Yamaguchi’s face in his palms, hands warm over his freckled skin. “I need you to look at my eyes, okay? Just for a second.”

His skin tingles under Oikawa’s touch. Inhaling slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet the archangel’s, willing himself not to blink.

Surprisingly, it’s not difficult. The harsh halo of light surrounding the angel had slowly faded to something gentle, eyes a soft mahogany, swirling deep and sweet. He’s transfixed, finding himself sinking deeper and deeper, Oikawa’s hands firm and soothing.

“You’re doing great,” the archangel coos, thumbs rubbing over Yamaguchi’s cheekbones. It’s strange. Intimate. He feels an odd tug in his gut. “But— I, ah, may have misled you,” he laments, expression suddenly apologetic, “this may hurt a bit.”

Yamaguchi feels alarm bells go off in his head, but before he can protest, the archangel drags his thumbs over the ridge of his eyebrows and then down, effectively closing his eyes. The tug in his abdomen shifts again, stronger this time, and Yamaguchi realizes that it’s entirely physical. Something aches behind his closed eyes, shooting from his stomach, up his spine, spinning up to gather in clouds behind his temples.

Oikawa moves his hands back. The warmth of them lingers, but that’s hardly worth noting—what’s alarming is that as he withdraws them, the pulling sensation grows stronger, something hollowing in his stomach. He opens his eyes, groggy as the angel’s hands come into view, two tendrils of glittering silver pinched between his fingers.

As the angel pulls, his chest starts to feel empty, like kite string being pulled from its spool. As the silver mass gathers around Oikawa’s fingers, he starts to feel like a shell, as if something’s being taken from his very core – he can’t feel his heart or hear his breath, throat numb as if his voice had been snatched away. There’s no possible way his muscles could be holding him up, and yet he remains upright, limbs heavy and immobile. Like a marionette. Like a hollow tree.

Even though his insides seem to be missing, he still feels a strange tingling – both inside his mind and out, sparking with an unfamiliar sensitivity.

“Good,” the archangel says again, gaze falling to the silver clouds in his palms. Yamaguchi can only watch, empty and frozen as they glitter right before his eyes. “That was good. You didn’t even cry.” Oikawa’s smile turns blinding once more, fingers pushing and pulling through the silver haze. As it shifts under his touch, different motes of color drift into view, glistening in different patterns.

Several tiny, orange specks blink into view, and the angel hums, twirling them around a finger. Yamaguchi feels a jolt, strange and sudden, and then a dull ache following it. They spin together, drawn by a foreign gravity, forming a circling orbit of orange planets – Oikawa pushes them to the side, and they break free of the clouds, lazily rotating in the air. Yamaguchi feels his core twitch.

“Hinata, huh?” the archangel says, watching it go, “he’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he? You’ve bonded with him.” As he glances at Yamaguchi’s face once more, small puffs of auburn gently shimmer into existence, slowly curling into the gap the orange gems had left.

 _That_ hurts. If he could shout, he would, but as the pain grows in a fiercely burning ache, all he can do is watch as the silver smog shudders in midair.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Oikawa amends, pushing the silver apart like curtains. Yamaguchi shakes. “You’re doing well. We’re almost done.”

Almost done? Yamaguchi hazily processes this, something tense tethered to his spine, playing along his nerves like violin strings. It seemed like forever ago and only a moment that the angel had pulled his insides from him, soft and glittering, tender in their vulnerability.

“Oh,” the archangel says, then, sounding reverent, “look at this.” His voice is wondering, far away, as if he’d stumbled upon some great treasure. As he watches Oikawa sift through the fog, a steadily glowing golden star rises from its depths.

The angel says nothing more, pushing through the clouds, steadily pulling out flecks of gold with a thorough triumph. With each glittering mote Oikawa extracts, Yamaguchi feels a pang, aching through his entire body. They all gleam differently – brighter, smaller, blinking and dim, lazily floating and flittering with energy.

He pulls and pulls and pulls, plucking each golden gem from the cloud. They gather just above it, swirling into a galaxy, clustering in gently pulsing circles around the brightest one. As the gleaming collection spins in steady nebulas above him, soreness permeates every muscle in Yamaguchi’s body, stinging and deep.

“Look at all of this,” Oikawa repeats, breathless. He pushes the golden motes away from the silver cloud, and Yamaguchi flinches, kite string tugging at its empty spool, “this was all hidden in you.” His eyes are glittering, admiring, auburn speckled with flickering gold.

The golden cluster is significantly larger than the orange one, and pales every other colored speck in the cloud in comparison. It’s _enormous_ , drifting just above the archangel’s head, throwing rippling patterns of light over the walls and ceilings.

Oikawa stares at it for several moments, awestruck look never fading, before slowly, slowly turning his attention back to the cloud.

It looks smaller now, flickering unsteadily as it slowly drifts back together – but even with its new, trembling shape, it remains bright as ever, glittering defiantly. The archangel stares at it, sparkling motes dusting his skin, before he delves both hands into the cloud’s depths. Yamaguchi feels something _lurch_ , and then—then the angel’s pulling out a pale, glowing ball of grey, and Yamaguchi ceases to exist.

There’s nothing to feel, and yet something harsh closes in all around him, seeking, ruthless, peering through every gap in his molecules. He’s blinded, trembling, raw and exposed to an unfamiliar storm roaring just above his head. It’s so much louder than anything he’s ever heard – fierce and unforgiving, shaking every bit of him to pieces. He’s moving, then, burning imprints searing into his sides, and then there’s a _click_.

With a shudder, Yamaguchi slams back into himself, vision scattering in colors over his eyes. Every part of him aches, exhausted and burning, and it’s all he can do to watch blearily as Oikawa puts the cloud back together.

First the citrus solar system, pushed back into the haze, and then bit by bit the gold galaxy zips in after it. Before they can all return, however, Oikawa snatches a handful of them—the silver quivers as the last grain of color returns to its core, straining for the ones the archangel holds captive, before finally stilling.

Wordlessly, Oikawa rolls the gold between his palms, hands glowing as they form a ball – with a _pop_ , the particles turn solid, a glittering sphere resting heavy in the angel’s palm.

Without pause, he tucks it into some hidden pocket, before reaching out for the cloud. Wisps of it curl around his fingers, like strings of a cats-cradle, before he looks back up at Yamaguchi’s face.

Balancing the cloud in a palm, Oikawa reaches out, murmuring “open,” before prying his jaw open with a hand to push the fog past his lips and down his throat.

It feels like smoke, like steam and metal, and his eyes water as it streams down his throat. As more of it pours into him, he feels his heartbeat stuttering back to life, kitestring rolling up, insides filling with light and color.

When it’s all back in place, he swallows, and immediately freezes up with agony.

Every bone screams raw, nerves ripped from their sheaths, blood slicing through his muscles. His jaw locks before he can cry out, but his legs buckle, and he collapses into the archangel’s waiting arms.

“Hey,” Oikawa soothes, voice soft as tears drip down Yamaguchi’s face, “you did great. You did _so_ well. Look at you.” He presses a hand against his cheek, combing careful fingers through his hair, “it’s over. You’re alive.”

Yamaguchi shakes against him, chest and shoulders tight and trembling with the sobs locked in his throat. It _hurts:_ everything hurts so badly, there’s so much agony and he can’t even _think_ as it tears through him, nausea screaming from his stomach. It’s too much – he’s going to die, it’s worse than the lightning, worse than the drowning, infinitely and _entirely_ consuming –

“Oh,” the archangel says, sympathy bordering on annoyance as he stares at him, “oh, dear. Hold still.” With a gentle movement, he presses his palm flat to Yamaguchi’s forehead, brushing it upwards as if cleaning something from his skin.

The pain’s pulled from him in a rush of air, leaving him gasping, body sagging. Oikawa props him up, arm around his waist as he carefully guides him, stumbling and weak, into the living room.

Somewhat unceremoniously, he deposits him onto the couch (again, always this same couch. Maybe he should invest in a more comfortable one), and Yamaguchi flops onto his side, tears stinging his cheeks. The angel crouches down, smiling once more, patting Yamaguchi’s arm.

“You’ll be okay,” he says, cheery and bright, brushing a tear from the corner of his eye, “just sit tight, okay? I’ll come back,” he pauses for a moment, mouth twisting, “at some point.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t have the capacity to do anything more than breathe. Something swirls inside of him, knocking against his bones, rattling stones through each rib and vertebrae. As Oikawa straightens up, he offers Yamaguchi another look of pity, eyes crinkling at the corners. Neither of them say anything for a moment – Yamaguchi is reminded, very suddenly, that he wishes Tsukishima was here instead – and then, as if sensing this, Oikawa smiles again, sharp and knowing, before disappearing with a blast of air.

Auburn dust floats through the air, left behind in the archangel’s wake; as it dusts his freckled skin, a sudden high-altitude cold extinguishes any lingering warmth in his chest.

* * *

 

**[ TSUKISHIMA, RANK ~~IV~~ III GUARDIAN ]**

“What,” Tsukishma’s nostrils flare, “the _hell_.”

It’d been bad enough that Oikawa had demoted him (deranked? Demerited? Knocked him down a peg?), stuck him in the In-Between, and clipped his wings (wings, fucking _wings_ , every time: hundreds of years and humans still couldn’t come up with anything more creative), but now— _now_ he’d stolen Tsukishima’s assignment from right under his nose.

There wasn’t much to do in the In-Between, save for staring at the swirling grey clouds around him. Other Guardians had flitted in and out, passing between worlds, but none of them had offered him anything other than a curious glance. They probably knew better than to meddle in an archangel’s affair.

Evidence of his demotion shone from him like a beacon, his diminished Glow marking his shame and failure. Even if he had been acknowledged by the other angels, he wasn’t sure he would even _want_ their attention. This was humiliating. Being bound on one spot was humiliating. Having to deal with the choice of being ignored or pitied was _humiliating_.

Kuroo glances sideways at him, sympathy floating around his head in amber motes. He’d been kind enough to take pity on Tsukishima, bending the rules and clearing a hole in the floor of the In-Between. With Earth now visible below, he could monitor the movements of humans and angels alike.

Which, of course, meant he’d seen the whole episode with Yamaguchi and Oikawa.

He seethes quietly, ignoring Kuroo’s look – Yamaguchi was _his_ to guard, his assignment, his responsibility. Should he die under Oikawa’s care, he’d be demoted once more and most likely detained in Heaven for thorough review.

Heaven was something he’d been avoiding for a reason. His work on Earth had lasted for many, many lifetimes, and though he’d tried to hide it, his lack of contact with the stars had started to drain his energy. The fact that Yamaguchi had been able to look at him full-on during revival was proof of that.

Tsukishima cared for his job more than he cared for what for what his peers thought of him – it came first and foremost, above all – but with his _cosmos_ slowly being sapped from him, a return to Heaven seemed to be his only option should he choose to continue his work.

That, or he could Fall – should he use his cosmic energy until its expiration, he would lose his core and retreat into his human skin forever. It was all very messy. Only two angels had ever Fallen—the Grand Canyon and the Mariana Trench served as prominent reminders of such.

On those occasions, however, the angels had been forcibly _thrown_ out of Heaven as opposed to Falling on their own terms. Survival wasn’t guaranteed – he wouldn’t take that risk. There was no way he could.

He hears Oikawa before he sees him – the distant roar of celestial storms rings in deafening echoes, and then there’s a devastatingly blinding flash of light.

The In-Between trembles. Grey shakes around him, cloudy wisps pulling off its walls and dissipating. He watches them go warily, blinking light from his eyes. The In-Between was made only for Guardians – the coming-and-going of an archangel was likely more energy than it was built to handle. A seraph would likely tear it apart completely.

“You,” he hears the voice, high with laughter, “have broken _every_ rule.”

Then he’s being yanked up, air sparking with derisive amusement, and then he’s face-to-face with Oikawa. The archangel’s expression stretches wide with a grin, but the fury in his eyes betrays him.

“I ought to take your _wings_ ,” he scolds, teeth bared in a smile, “for what you’ve done.” Oikawa drops Tsukishima, who stumbles to keep his balance, before the archangel reaches behind him, clenching his fingers into fists and tugging a pair of tawny wings into existence.

Tsukishima winces, feeling the sudden air against the feathers – the wings shouldn’t exist, they’re too bulky; but, given the _persistent_ human belief in winged angels, they continued to manifest on Earth. It was inconvenient. They were ugly.

The archangel had clipped them some days ago. The primary feathers tapered to blunt ends, short and even – with the glittering gold that dusted them, they’d almost be pretty, but the fact that they rendered Tsukishima flightless took away from their luster.

“But I won’t,” Oikawa says, examining the plumage, “because you, unfortunately, have _a job_ to finish.” He looks back up, meeting Tsukishima’s eyes. The air around him boils with a simmering anger, heat waves warping his beaming features.

Tsukishima swallows quietly, willing himself to stay still. Despite his own contempt, his rank remained firmly burned into him – as a Guardian, he would always remain a subordinate, and that in itself demanded an inherent obedience. It was something he wasn’t happy about, but there was nothing he could possibly do, lest he wanted to face some sort of punishment.

He grinds his teeth, taking a deep, steady breath.

Oikawa stares him down for a moment more before shifting his gaze, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of the cut feathers. Tsukishima instinctively tenses, expecting another clip, but at the touch of a soft wind, he glances down.

The air shimmers under the archangel’s fingers, glowing grey and white, and as he watches, the ends of his feathers respond in kind. There’s a tingling energy that winds down the arch of his wings, through the slick primaries, and right before his eyes the feathers start to _regrow_ , lengthening to graceful licks of color. With the plumage restored, a single wave of gold ripples through it, gently bursting to dust with a faint _ding_.

“There,” Oikawa says, deceptively cheerful, “now you can flit around to your heart’s desire.” As Tsukishima levels him with a sour look, he laughs, cocking his head to the side. “Don’t get too comfortable. Transport is a privilege, not a right.”

Tsukishima remains silent, ruminating. Though not commonly touched upon, that was in fact the case – angels under scrutiny or review _were_ likely to be grounded for periods of time. It was rare, but Tsukishima was one of the lucky few, it seemed.

“Thank you,” he finally grinds out, jaw working around the words, “may I… return? I’d like to complete my assignment.” He finishes, voice stiff. Oikawa laughs.

“Assignment? That’s such a cold way to refer to your freckled companion, isn’t it?” his smile grows once more as Tsukishima’s eyes narrow to slits. With a hum, he draws ever closer, coming face to face with the other angel.

Tsukishima shifts, suddenly anxious. Their skins were close in height, but even with the similarity, Oikawa gleamed much bigger and brighter than he did. It was almost enough to intimidate him. Had he been made of weaker stuff, he would have cowered – but even so, it’s all he can do to keep his expression neutral.

“Well, of course, _Tsukki_ ,” Tsukishima tenses, “but, ah—one more thing.” Before he can react, the archangel reaches up, plucking his glasses from his face with a deft motion. Earth fades below, and suddenly, the only thing Tsukishima can feel is the muted hum of the In-Between – and then, with a jolt of horror, he watches Oikawa crush the glasses to dust.

“Like I said,” Oikawa’s voice pulls his eyes upwards, “a privilege. Not a right.” The archangel makes no attempt to conceal the cool derision in his voice this time around, and all Tsukishima can do is stare, wordless.

The absence of his far-sight meant losing contact with other angels, meant an inability to sense or see anyone’s Glow beyond those in the immediate vicinity—it meant vulnerability. It meant blindness. It meant he’d have to stay really, really close to Yamaguchi.

“Go.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, Oikawa widens the rift in the floor. It rumbles with an obvious tremor, empty black space yawning at Tsukishima. “Go back. I’ll collect you once you’re… finished,” his voice trails off to something sickly sweet – then, there’s a rush of air and dust, and a solid palm pushes Tsukishima into the waiting pit.

His breath escapes him in a rush, wings snapping out in an automatic flurry of gold, blurry air zipping through him as he falls to Earth, far below.

Even as the planet rotates below him, slow, wavering blue-and-green in his unsteady vision, he swears to himself he can see a solid plume of silver beaming high, high above the ground.

* * *

 

When Yamaguchi hears the solid _thump_ , he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Living on the top floor was both a blessing and a curse: he either had to wait for the elevator or trek fifteen stories down to the ground below; the breeze through his windows was excellent in the summer but hell in the winter; and the view from his apartment was a nice one, but the roof made weird noises all the time – such as the one he’d just heard.

He offers the ceiling an accusing, thin-lipped stare. It pointedly ignores him.

With a noise of defeat, he sets his laptop to the side, standing to brush a spray of crumbs from his sweatpants – normally, untidiness wouldn’t suit him, but it’d been a nice, lazy, peaceful day. Up until now, at least.

Briefly, he contemplates changing clothes (the sweatpants are an unfortunate shade of fuchsia, a proud “PINK” emblazoned on the seat – they’d been a joke gift from a cousin, but he’d kept them. Secretly. They were _comfortable_ ), but decides otherwise, both out of sheer laziness and with the knowledge that there _probably_ wasn’t anyone on the roof.

Yamaguchi pushes out of his apartment, leaving the door cracked behind him, before making his way around a corner and down the hall, finding a familiar metal door labeled “DO NOT ENTER” in bold, white letters.

He was going to enter anyways. He _lived_ here.

Cautiously pushing the door open, he glances upwards, before slowly beginning his ascent. The staircase is sturdy, steel and solid, with stark lights casting harsh shadows on their grilled steps. They barely creak as he approaches the heavy door at the top, and then he’s opening that one, as well, making his way out into the sunlight.

Yamaguchi blinks, looking around for the source of the noise, before his eyes land on what seems to be the _largest_ bird he’s _ever_ seen– but then a wing shifts, revealing a human face, and he audibly gasps.

“Tsukishima,” he calls, zipping over – there’s a strange relief blooming in his chest, warm and happy behind his ribs – the sight of the angel is comforting in its familiarity.

Tsukishima slowly sits up, propping himself on his elbows as he stares blearily at Yamaguchi. He seems to hesitate, jaw working as his wings slide limply to rest on either side of him. After a few moments, his nonplussed gaze drops to Yamaguchi’s legs, and he squints –

“Nice pants.” He says, voice hoarse.

Immediately flushing an alarming shade of crimson, Yamaguchi crouches to his level, eyes flickering over every inch of him – the wings are new, but definitely interesting: they explained where the occasional flurry of feathers came from, at any rate. They’re tawny, like an owl’s, interspersed with various white and golden-brown streaks. Though a little ruffled, they’re elegant things, arching high and proud on either side of him.

“I—yeah, thanks. Are you okay?” Yamaguchi finally offers, face still burning. “You—did you fall?” he adds, casting a glance at the sky as if expecting to see a gaping hole staring back.

“Sort of,” the angel responds wearily, reaching up to rub his eyes, “it wasn’t my best landing, that’s for sure.” Hands falling, he squints at Yamaguchi again – who, to his surprise, notices scorch marks streaked on the concrete all around the angel’s body.

Yamaguchi blinks, at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? He had so many questions, as he always did – that was always his dilemma – but then, all except one sink to the background as his eyes alight on Tsukishima’s bare face.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, “what happened to your glasses?”

Tsukishima’s hand flies up to his face, fingers brushing over the bridge of his nose as if only just noticing their absence. A look of frustration flickers over his face, eyes flashing bright with annoyance. His entire face seems open, now, more vulnerable, easy to read. Without thinking, Yamaguchi leans in close.

Oh, _man_ —Tsukishima has his _own_ spray of freckles. They’re pale, but they’re there, splashed over his nose and under his left eye. Though nothing like Yamaguchi’s (which were dark, peppering his face and body like splattered paint), they’re visible, sun-spotted where black frames had once obscured them.

“They broke,” Tsukishima says, glancing to the side, as if bashful. Yamaguchi scrutinizes him again, before sitting back on his heels, expression slowly changing to a smile. In the end, the glasses didn’t really matter – his curiosity remained, as did his concern, but his relief was stronger than both.

“Those are your wings?” he changes the subject, eyeing the feathered joints splayed out on either side of Tsukishima. The angel glances back at them, before clearing his throat, expression changing to one of irritated embarrassment. The wings shifts in front of Yamaguchi’s eyes, ruffled and soft, and as a ripple of gold briefly shimmers over their surface, he hears a gentle chime.

“Yes.” Tsukishima says, eyeing his own feathers with a morbid interest. “Unfortunately.” Even as he speaks, they twitch, and a puff of down scatters loose. Yamaguchi watches as it floats away, slowly dissolving to sparkling dust. “They hinder more than they help.” At Yamaguchi’s questioning look, he sighs, “they don’t actually _do_ anything. They’re just there for show.”

Yamaguchi blinks. There’s a rustle, then, and the wings snap shut right before his eyes. The air’s empty, now, devoid of any sign of the wings’ existence.

Now, with no wings and no glasses, Tsukishima just looks like a disgruntled, flustered twentysomething sprawled on the ground.

Yamaguchi kind of wants to hug him.

He settles for reaching out, patting the angel’s shoulder – Tsukishima gives his hand a sharp glance, and Yamaguchi hesitates, palm flat against his warm skin, before he slowly pulls it back.

“Sorry,” he says, mortified – of course the angel wouldn’t want to be touched, he was probably above coming into contact with humans – maybe he’d _tainted_ him or something –

“No,” the angel says, sudden, “it’s fine.” His voice sounds strangled, eyes still lingering on his shoulder before he finally blinks back up at Yamaguchi. They’re both silent for a moment, air strangely thick, before Yamaguchi laughs, breaking the silence.

“Well,” he clears his throat, smile spreading over his face – he hesitates for only a moment before reaching out once more, tentatively resting a palm on Tsukishima’s shoulder once more, “I’m… really glad you’re back.”

Tsukishima watches him, brow creasing, and Yamaguchi feels a tingle just under his fingertips. Again, he remains quiet, and Yamaguchi feels foolish – what was he doing? He probably looks stupid, reaching out again, like he’s— _desperate,_ or something.

“Yeah,” the angel says, voice lowered. “I—me, too.”

Yamaguchi stares at him, and Tsukishima stares back. Though the repeated silences should feel awkward, they don’t – a soft breeze blows away the tension between them, leaving nothing but clean, open air behind.

Tsukishima tilts his head – and then, so small that Yamaguchi almost misses it, he _smiles_.

* * *

 

**[ KUROO, RANK V GUARDIAN ]**

“They look happy together,” Kuroo muses, thoughtful gaze trained on the turning Earth below. He can hear its rumbling, the crackling seraph at its core, smoldering life force boiling through vents deep, deep in the ocean.

It was no wonder humans believed in Hell. They were almost right – Lucifer _had_ Fallen, and he remained deep, deep below the ground, his eternal star-energy turning the Earth again and again. He was better off that way, down there – there, at least, he was doing something useful, instead of hurling black holes around like a massive douchebag.

Still, every so often, he could be heard cursing from his prison between layers of molten earth, and both humans and angels alike would shudder. The resulting earthquakes were bad enough – should he escape, the Earth would shatter to pieces.

It wasn’t worth thinking about, however. For the moment, he remained sullenly quiet, light gently pulsing with the inexorable rotation of the planet.

“I suppose they do,” Oikawa sighs from his perch on the In-Between’s edge, legs swinging out into swirling space. Tiny stars glitter as they move past, slowly streaming out to Eden. As the archangel watches them go, he gently bats one away with his foot. Kuroo watches it go with a pang of sympathy – somewhere, some poor cherub had probably just been tossed into a tree. Or something.

“But, you understand,” Oikawa casts a meaningful glance up at the other angel, “ _that’s_ why I have to intervene, right?” When Kuroo nods wordlessly, he drops his gaze back down to Earth. Kuroo scratches the back of his head, waiting for the archangel’s inevitable explanation.

“You should’ve seen the amount of Tsukishima’s _cosmos_ the poor boy had collected,” Oikawa continues, pitying, “it was almost enough to Make a new angel.” The archangel swirls a foot in midair, watching a cluster of cherub-stars spin around it.

“I don’t understand.” Kuroo says, a bit uneasy. Angels only had so much energy to spare before they had to return to Heaven, stationing themselves at their star to recollect their lost _cosmos_. For Tsukishima to spare that much energy would surely mean he was almost completely drained – and, well, given Tsukishima’s infamous reputation for his lengthy stay on Earth, it was a shock that he even had any _cosmos_ left at all.

Oikawa clicks his tongue, unblinking as the ocean ripples far, far below. There’s another faint _crack_ from Earth’s core, and Oikawa and Kuroo both take pause—only when silence falls once more does the archangel speak again.

“Tsukishima must’ve latched onto that poor soul,” Oikawa hums, plucking a grey wisp from the floor beneath him, “some time ago. Who knows how many lifetimes he’s followed him through?” Twirling it around and through his fingers, he tosses it out into space, watching it spin before gently bursting in a shower of dust.

Kuroo shifts from foot to foot where he stands. That would explain Tsukishima’s strange attachment to Earth, but… there was no real reason for an angel to chase a human soul through more than one lifetime – unless there was something very, _very_ wrong with the angel.

He inhales a steadying breath.

“Do you really intend to have him Remade?” Kuroo says evenly, idly watching as the cherub-stars drift just past his nose.

“If I had my way, Kuroo, I’d have him _Unmade_.” Oikawa replies, voice remaining casual even as the other angel casts a stricken look down at him.

“You’re kidding.” Kuroo responds, incredulous. Unmakings were a myth, a horror story whispered between the ranks of younger angels and cherubi – it had never been done. It was never _supposed_ to be done. Such an order would have to come from a Greater Force or decided among the seraphs – and they would never have the time or patience to deal with one errant Guardian.

“Ah,” Oikawa sighs, looking up with a smile, “I never joke, my dear Guardian.” As he beams, Kuroo shuts his mouth, shifting his eyes to the archangels’ galaxies, high above.

“He’s tainted himself,” Oikawa explains, following Kuroo’s gaze, “he’s – ah – been _transferring_ his own energy in exchange for little bits of that poor soul’s Glow.” Kuroo’s head snaps down, expression twisting in morbid disbelief.

“Unfortunately, Glow doesn’t even begin to compare to _cosmos_.” the archangel laments, suddenly very interested in his fingernails. “Though Tsukishima’s energy could be partly replaced with each transfer, it’s never going to be enough – and now, it’s catching up with him.” Pity flows back into his voice.

“What does that mean? For both of them?” Kuroo finally asks, mouth dry.

One or two transfers weren’t uncommon, should an angel want to keep a closer eye on their Shielded, but from the sound of it, Tsukishima had been doing it for lifetimes. That was an _incredible_ amount of _cosmos_ to give up. How was Tsukishima still functioning? Surely he would have Fallen by now, if the archangel’s words were true.

Oikawa sighs. For a moment, he looks genuinely concerned, his pity stamped over his fair features. He reaches up, combing fingers through his dark locks, and Kuroo watches star-sparks fly from the ends of his hair.

Their hierarchy dictated that Guardians were the archangels’ responsibility. Archangels usually remained in Heaven, however, and Guardians were entirely devoted to their jobs, so it was rare for anything to go awry. Oikawa’s appearance had unnerved the Earth in the place he’d touched down – plants had started to grow large and strange, animals developing a sharp intelligence and a frightening, dark knowing. The news had reported a constant, strong smell of ground coffee and leather – no one could find the source of it, and despite the locals’ best efforts, it continued to linger in the air.

It was probably the most exciting thing to ever happen in the town of Chicopee, Kansas. Oikawa couldn’t have chosen a better place to touch down. No doubt all 400 residents would be talking about it for generations to come.

“It means,” Oikawa begins, suddenly somber, “that Tsukishima has corrupted himself. Irreparably. Yamaguchi, too.” He sounds tired. “To separate them now would mean…” he pauses, “I don’t know. I don’t know what it would mean.” The archangel rubs his temples, frustration zipping in dark motes around his head.

Kuroo’s head spins. He’d known Tsukishima had been nearing a dangerous point, but… it seemed to be more serious than he’d originally thought.

Under Oikawa’s strict orders, Kuroo had turned his own Shielded over to a different Guardian – though he hadn’t been happy about it, the boy had ended up in good hands, and Kuroo was then free to trail Tsukishima as he’d been ordered.

“What I _do_ know,” the archangel’s quiet voice draws his attention, “is that… this whole time they’ve been— _mingling_ – Tsukishima’s been losing touch with us. With Heaven. With _home._ ” He offers Kuroo a pointed look.

He nods, lips pursed. Not once had Tsukishima noticed Kuroo following him, not until Kuroo had appeared right in front of him – that, and he’d failed to trace the cherub that’d made itself right at home in Yamaguchi’s bakery. Cherubs were hard to miss, given their bright brash-loud nature, and for Tsukishima to not even notice him was worrying.

 _This_ cherub had been on the louder side, too – he was magnet-spark click-bright, eyes clever, small and buzzing with energy. Though he was rarely actually at the bakery, as he’d seemingly latched onto the sad-faced human with the hair bun and an old, old Glow, traces of him still should’ve been obvious.

“There’s too much foreign Glow in him. He’s dimming. And—the human, Yamaguchi—he’s brightening. I don’t want attention to be drawn to him,” Oikawa chews the inside of his cheek in thought. “Perhaps they’re too strongly bonded. Separation might kill Yamaguchi… or make Tsukishima Fall… or both. But,” he sighs, “we have to make necessary sacrifices, don’t we?”

Kuroo says nothing. It was better to curb his tongue with an archangel around, egotistic and unpredictable as they were—he knows when to watch himself.

Even so, he’s known Tsukishima for aeons. Their galaxies collided every so often, Guardians from both systems mingling, and Tsukishima’s star was one he knew well. They were the closest things angels had to _friends_ , despite Tsukishima’s bite-back personality – but that was only a recent development, anyways. Surely being away from Heaven for so long was what made him so irritable.

He wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of Tsukishima Falling – or his Remaking, or Unmaking, for that matter. He’d spent too many years tossing comets back and forth with him to let him go without protest.

Still, the word of an archangel was law, so it’s all he can do to hold his tongue.

“You don’t like that idea, do you?” Oikawa hums, eyes unfocused. “You’ve been silent this whole time. It’s okay,” he soothes as Kuroo goes to protest, “you’re attached. It happens.” Snapping back into himself, he swivels, casting a blinding smile up at the other angel. “But, don’t forget— _love_ is for humans.”

Kuroo scowls.

“Keep on as you have been,” Oikawa waves a hand, “if Tsukishima still doesn’t know that you’re interfering, it’s best to keep on until the end.” he laughs, soft and thoughtful. “Anything to hurry this along. The less pain, the better.”

A sudden pang of guilt ripples through him – pushing Yamaguchi into death’s grip time and time again went against his very nature: both as a Guardian and as Tsukishima’s _friend_. If he hadn’t stepped in, however, it was likely that Yamaguchi would have made it to old age without dying.

It was surprising, to say the least, that Tsukishima hadn’t noticed anything strange about Yamaguchi’s supposed _unluckiness_. It’d been difficult to conceal himself with Tsukishima constantly hovering around his Shielded – but with his dulled senses, slipping past his defenses to get at Yamaguchi had actually been surprisingly easy.

He’d felt especially bad about hitting Yamaguchi with lightning – Oikawa had found some humor in it, but it was a horrific way to die, and even from a distance Kuroo could sense the trauma that still flickered through the human’s dreams.

“Won’t my interfering piss Time off?” Kuroo asks cautiously, finally speaking. Oikawa has the grace to keep his gaze focused elsewhere, making a thoughtful noise.

Time had a mean streak a universe wide, and she’d been known to toss Guardians into parallel timelines out of pure spite. Every angel – seraphs included – held her in reverent, terrified admiration. Kuroo couldn’t exactly blame her, though – dealing with thousands upon thousands of ungrateful, demanding Guardians surely took a toll on whatever was left of her patience.

Kuroo had tried to say hello to her once, and she’d flung him right into Mt. Vesuvius. Needless to say, no one had been happy – Kuroo still swears up and down that Pompeii wasn’t his fault, but the smell of ash and fire still clung to him to this day.

“No,” Oikawa muses, “so long as he’s alive in the end, you should be able to steer clear of Time’s _lovely_ claws.” The floor of the In-Between rumbles in ominous response, and Oikawa pats it, tossing a cheerful ‘sorry!’ over his shoulder.

“I don’t…” Kuroo pauses, looking for words, “I don’t see how one Guardian could possibly cause the amount of trouble you’ve predicted.” His tone is questioning, almost, and he blinks as the archangel heaves a sigh.

“Look, Kuroo.” Oikawa waves a hand again, palm flat over the disc of the turning Earth. As he sweeps it to the side, the air shimmers, something invisible shifting under his fingers. Kuroo watches as, one by one, tiny pinpricks of light blink into existence on the Earth’s surface below. More and more flicker on, quicker in streams, and then they stop, colonies of light flashing up at them.

“Those are all the Guardians currently on Earth,” the archangel says, eyes gleaming with reflected light, “well, and a few cherubs – _but_ , my point is,” he presses, “there’s a ripple effect.”

Kuroo waits.

“Like this.” Oikawa plucks another passing cherub-star from the air, examining it for a moment – it brightens with sudden excess energy, before he tosses it into the passing stream of winking galaxies.

Other stars scatter away from where it lands, spinning out in confused circles. The steady flow grinds to a halt, lights vibrating in midair, and Kuroo watches as they flitter from side to side.

Oikawa waits for several moments, before drawing them back together with a snap of his fingers, and they continue on their merry, uninterrupted way.

“See,” Oikawa says plainly, “like a pebble in a pond. The ripple spreads.” Kuroo nods politely, and the archangel laughs. “I’m sure you’ve heard _that_ analogy a million times. But the ripples aren’t harmless, Kuroo – should Tsukishima disrupt this rhythm, millions of humans will die.”

The archangel’s eyes suddenly look glassy, far off and dimly worried. His brows draw together, and patient as always, Kuroo waits for him to finish his thought.

“With all those _kernels_ – and energy, and Glow – floating around at once, who knows what they’ll gather?” Oikawa’s voice is distant, dreamy, “who knows what it could stir up?”

Earth’s core _creaks_.

“Point taken,” Kuroo responds, watching the twinkling lights below. They’re all so tiny, barely needlepoints in comparison to the roaring light at the center of the Earth.

What Oikawa’s implying would be disastrous. Tsukishima apparently had the power to ruin everything—sardonic, introverted, Earth-bound, fierce Tsukishima, with all his lightning and sunshine, could destroy the Earth with one decision.

“Do you understand now?” Oikawa says softly, and Kuroo nods. Earth – humans – took priority over any individual angel. That’d been the one direct order from a Greater Force that Kuroo remembered: protect humans, above yourself, above all.

The one angel who’d disobeyed now served as a glorified power generator for the planet Earth.

“After… the last death, what’ll happen to Tsukishima?” Kuroo asks, blinking as a meteorite streaks past. Despite the danger the wayward angel had put them all in, Tsukishima remained someone he cared about. If an Unmaking could be avoided, he’d ensure it.

“I don’t know,” the archangel hums, “it depends on how he reacts. Should he listen, then a Remaking’s in order – if not, I’ll get the seraphs involved, and we’ll all get to see our first Unmaking.” His smile is thin and humorless.

“Seraphs? Really?” Kuroo asks suspiciously.

Though Time reigned as the most terrifying entity in the near universes, the seraphs followed at a close second. All made in the image of women, their authority was unquestioned – the only one in the image of the man had, again, ended up embedded in Earth – and to invoke their wrath was to risk the stability of hundreds of galaxies.

“Yes.” A short answer. “If this is as dangerous as I think it is, then I’ll do _anything_ , my dear Guardian.”

Kuroo watches a point of light below as it grows brighter before rocketing into the sky. It hurtles past them, _cosmos_ rumbling, and after several moments the angel shoots back into its star with a dull roar.

“Love,” Oikawa sighs, slowly rising to a standing position. He brushes gleaming dust from his arms, the same that always clung to him, before offering Kuroo a soft smile. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The thing that keeps them together is the same thing that ruins us.” The archangel sighs, shaking his head, before clapping a hand on Kuroo’s shoulder.

“Do your job,” he continues, eyes glittering, “and we shouldn’t have any problems.” He pauses, letting the weight of that sink in.

“Until next time.” Oikawa squeezes his shoulder, and then he’s gone in a roar of light, wind almost knocking Kuroo off his feet.

As the archangel disappears, the brief view of the mapped angels fades, blue-and-green slowly returning to their normal flat color.

Kuroo’s arm aches with the phantom weight of Oikawa’s palm. As he watches each pinprick of light wink into nothingness, he sighs, feeling the weight of the universe slowly coming to rest on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for your wonderful comments and kudos, they mean so much to me and im so glad youre enjoying my work! this is the first fic of any notable length ive written, so to know that even just a few of you think its decent means the world to me
> 
> until next time


	6. IMMOLATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's a double edged sword, if you think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter sorry folks

Tsukishima had taken to perching on the windowsill.

It would be funny if it wasn’t so strange. There was no sense to it. Every time Yamaguchi had caught him half-hanging out the window, it’d only served to further his absolute bewilderment. What the angel was looking for, he had no idea—but the way Tsukishima stared down at the ground below was almost unsettling.

The one time he’d stumbled on the angel with his wings arched out behind him, he’d made an offhanded comment about nesting eagles, and after leveling a sour look at him Tsukishima had made a visible effort to keep his wings hidden.

Without them, he seemed smaller, somehow—that, and the absence of lofty mystery that came with his glasses, made him seem all the more approachable.

So, Yamaguchi had approached him.

The frequency of the angel’s snippy comments had decreased, stares heavy with thought rather than irritation—he looks tired, now, more than anything, dark circles sagging under his eyes. Even his irises seemed infinitesimally dimmer, gold brightening and fading in alarming patterns. Though subdued, Tsukishima was notably softer now, murmuring easy conversation and quiet company.

It still didn’t explain why he kept hanging out the window.

Yamaguchi eyes the angel as he hovers, upper body entirely out in the air. Moments tick by as he watches him—Tsukishima’s unmoving, save for the intent flickering of his eyes.

“What are you looking at.” He says flatly. It’s more of a statement than a question, as this was a conversation they’d rehearsed many times. Every time, Tsukishima would skirt around the topic, evasive in his responses. Still, Yamaguchi wasn’t one to be deterred. He’d wear the angel down. Eventually.

“Nothing.” The angel automatically replies, barely turning his head. Yamaguchi can just barely see the color of his eyes, gently glowing in the noon sun. Tsukishima ignores Yamaguchi’s responding huff, pointed in its displeasure.

“Can you even see without your glasses?” Yamaguchi accuses, grasping for straws. Anything to make the angel pay attention to him rather than the window. Tsukishima sighs audibly, shoulders slumping as he turns to face Yamaguchi.

“Yes,” he says sullenly, “I can see what’s in front of me. But… I can’t—“ his expression twists with frustration, and he lifts a hand to his forehead. “—you know what? No. I can’t see without my glasses.” He grumbles.

“Jinkies.” Yamaguchi mutters to himself. Tsukishima shoots him a look.

Before, he hadn’t wanted to comment on the angel’s bleary gaze, but the confusion that sometimes flickered over his features was hard to miss. It was like he was unfocused, almost, straining to see something just out of his line of sight. Tsukishima’s drifting gaze perhaps explained why he’d peer so intently out the window, but what he was looking for, exactly, remained a mystery.

There’s another Scooby Doo joke there somewhere.

“You can’t—“ Yamaguchi gestures vaguely, “—magic another pair into existence?”

“No.” Tsukishima says tersely, palm resting heavily on the windowsill. “I can’t.”

His tone holds a pointed finality. That was the end of that, it seemed.

“Well,” Yamaguchi hesitates, “stop staring out the window for, like, two seconds. You’re probably freaking someone out down there.”

With a final glance out the window, the angel sighs, moving away from the sill. Sullen, he makes his way over to the couch, sitting where Yamaguchi absently pats a hand.

“Nothing’s going to happen if I fall,” he points out, “I can—fly, you know.” Yamaguchi hums in response, eyes re-glued to his laptop screen.

With the open window now unobstructed, a pleasant breeze winds its way into Yamaguchi’s apartment, ruffling his hair. As the spring semester came to an end, the weather had started to celebrate with the now-liberated students, greenery draping itself over every bush and tree.

Summer was just around the corner – the promise of sunshine and long days hinted at the possibility of a slew of free hours. With all of that potential time on his hands, Yamaguchi was free to relax for once, focusing only on his job and the comfort of late spring evenings.

“You should join the volleyball team.” Tsukishima says abruptly, breaking the silence.

Yamaguchi lets his head fall back with a groan. He wasn’t allowed a moment of peace, it seemed – after exhaling a slow breath, he turns his head, giving the angel a pointed look.

“Why?” he asks wearily.

“You have the free time now, right?” Tsukishima points out, ignoring Yamaguchi’s eye roll, “and you’ve wanted to. Besides, if you start practicing now, you can improve enough for you to… gain confidence. That is the reason why you won’t do it, right?”

Yamaguchi makes a dissenting noise.

“Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima lofts a brow.

Another noise.

“Will you at least consider it?” the angel says, cross.

Yamaguchi considers the ceiling instead, watching the blades of the ceiling fan rotate in lazy circles. It didn’t really do much in the way of cooling the apartment, but just having it on made the sweltering summers seem a little easier to bear. As it was, the faint breaths of air puffing with its movements were comforting at the moment.

“Okay.” Yamaguchi finally answers, shrugging. The worst that could happen was for him to try it out now, while he had the time, then quit (or be kicked off) the team once the fall semester rolled back around.

Summer always brought new opportunities to light _. “It’s the sun,”_ his mother had once told him, _“it brings everything back to life.”_

And, well—he _had_ been contemplating change not too long ago. It’d be almost hypocritical to back out now, wouldn’t it?

“I guess.” He adds as an afterthought, blinking over to meet Tsukishima’s gaze. The angel’s mouth quirks wryly. “I mean—don’t look at me like that—“ he threatens as amusement flashes over Tsukishima’s face, “I guess it couldn’t hurt.” He finishes grudgingly.

It wasn’t the prospect of the team itself that bothered him – it was the possibility of failure and inadequacy hung over him like a raincloud, dimming his thoughts with uncertainty. Though those who’d encouraged him had been nothing but well-meaning, the prospect of making that leap always made Yamaguchi’s chest burn with anxious embarrassment.

Yamaguchi’s discomfort must have been palpable. Tsukishima doesn’t press him any further, turning his gaze elsewhere. Yamaguchi feels the knot of anxiety in his chest loosen somewhat, though the discomfort remains, sitting solid in the pit of his stomach. Why it affected him so much, he had no idea, but he’d always been quick to jump to the worst of conclusions.

“You don’t have to do it if it makes you that anxious,” the angel says, plain and quiet, “not if you have the choice.”

Yamaguchi turns his head to stare, before uttering a faint laugh. He’d always cursed himself for hesitating so often, held back by his own anxieties, but – Tsukishima’s words are comforting in their own way. Unconsciously, his muscles relax, if only a bit, and he lets hands he doesn’t remember clenching fall loosely into his lap.

“Thanks,” he says, smile shaky and self-deprecating, “but I should, I guess – there’s no point in babying myself forever, you know?” he stares down at his hands, fingers limp against his legs.

Tsukishima watches him again, silent and contemplative.

“Of course.” The angel finally answers. “But, you have time. There’s no point in pushing yourself to exhaustion. Then you won’t be able to do anything at all.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t look up. When he feels a gentle weight against his shoulder, he leans back against it without thought, tentatively resting against Tsukishima. The angel doesn’t say anything, but his presence is warm and encouraging, and Yamaguchi exhales a steadying sigh.

His own fears were something he’d have to overcome – slowly, surely, but a necessary goal nonetheless. For the moment, however, he’s content to just sit as he is, leaning against Tsukishima’s shoulder.

He has the entire summer, after all.

* * *

 

**[ KUROO, RANK V GUARDIAN ]**

Kuroo feels his stomach roil.

From his post, he can see and hear their entire conversation. It’s almost sickening, the growing affection there, but the easy happiness glowing pink from both of them is endearing.

He really, _really_ doesn’t want to kill Yamaguchi again.

With every passing day, as the nights grew shorter, their bond sparked with a brighter and brighter light. If Kuroo didn’t know better, he’d chalk it as something past mere affection – but then again, given Tsukishima’s diminished state, it was likely that he was more susceptible to human emotion.

Even with the glimmering silver-gold that connected them with thin strings, it was clear how much Tsukishima had dimmed. It was as if his deterioration had sped up after Oikawa’s intervention, gold _cosmos_ guttering into nothingness as it was drained from him.

On the other hand, Yamaguchi only seemed to be getting brighter and brighter. The flecks of gold embedded in the Glow of his core were now obvious to Kuroo – whether it was because Tsukishima kept pouring it into Yamaguchi, or if it was because of Oikawa, or even both, he had no idea. The exchange of energy, uneven as it was, was obvious. As Tsukishima lost his light, Yamaguchi gained it – but even with that, Tsukishima still, thankfully, glowed brighter.

Kuroo sighs, planting his chin in his palm. His concern for the both of them was almost enough to conflict with Oikawa’s direct orders – _“speed this along, Kuroo, it has to end as soon as possible”_ – and though he was reluctant to obey, it was practically impossible not to. So, he’d continued to trail them both, and as such had been witness to their every movement.

He’d seen Yamaguchi fall asleep on Tsukishima (twice); he’d seen Tsukishima covertly feed some energy into Yamaguchi’s cacti so they would bloom faster; he’d seen Yamaguchi idly doodle little wings and halos in his notebooks. But most of all, he’d noticed the growing amiability between them – the time they spent sitting in silence, just content to let the quiet remain undisturbed as they went about their business. Which, in Yamaguchi’s case, often meant reading a book; and in Tsukishima’s, meant staring blankly off into space.

They’d grown effortlessly comfortable with each other, it’d seemed.

Kuroo had to end it as soon as possible. It’d hurt more to separate them if they continued to grow close, but even so, his hesitation betrayed his misgivings. Even with the necessity of ending this _farce_ , the mere fact that Tsukishima was _happy_ was the one thing that held him back. Though the true depth of his affection for Yamaguchi was indiscernible, his happiness was clear as day, glowing bright even with his diminished _cosmos_.

So, Kuroo had two choices—he could obey Oikawa and kill Yamaguchi twice more, forcing Tsukishima back into Heaven, or he could purposely disobey the archangel and let Tsukishima be even as his _cosmos_ drained from him until his death. (Death? Would he die? Would he Fall?) Even with that risk, Tsukishima would be happy, so – it was, in effect, a choice between his life or his happiness.

He runs a hand through his hair with another frustrated exhale. Kuroo had only been stationed on Earth for some months after a long stay in Heaven, and with his brand new, inflexible skin, it was difficult for him to understand the scope of Tsukishima’s emotions. All angels were susceptible to such while wearing a human glamour, but from what he could tell, Tsukishima felt almost as fully and intensely as a human did.

Which was, of course, unheard of.

Briefly, he entertains the thought that Oikawa might be lying. Maybe the archangel’s ego had gotten the best of him, and he simply wanted to reprimand an out-of-line Guardian just to reestablish his dominance. Kuroo dismisses it almost immediately, however. Archangels _couldn’t_ lie, at least not about something that serious – besides, with Tsukishima slowly weakening, the evidence would have tipped Kuroo off to something awry even if Oikawa hadn’t told him.

The other angels gossiped about Tsukishima’s long absence, up among the stars. Kuroo had only half-listened, too focused on restoring his _cosmos_ – which was a lengthy process, and to be fully effective, required a trancelike state – but as the years passed, the rumors had never decreased in quantity, which left Kuroo wondering just how long Tsukishima had been stationed, grounded on the Earth below.

He’d glanced down on occasion, curious, and each time he’d been able to pick out Tsukishima bopping around various time periods. Whether he’d done it in a linear way, or if he’d somehow managed to bribe Time ( _ha_ ), Kuroo had yet to figure out – but the fact remained that Tsukishima’s absence was inordinately lengthy.

After emerging from star-sleep, Kuroo had taken to watching Tsukishima’s distinctive Glow float through time, but it wasn’t until he’d actually asked another angel that he’d found out the exact length of Tsukishima’s stay.

Apparently, he’d remained on Earth since his second stationing, just after the death of the Prophet – which meant, in effect, that he’d been on Earth for hundreds of years.

Kuroo had been shocked. Tsukishima hadn’t returned to Heaven _once_ , not during any of those long years. It shouldn’t have been possible.

It was no wonder he was slowly guttering out of existence. His _cosmos_ was way past its expiration date, and yet he’d made it to his point, stubbornly dragging himself along through the years.

Even so, the toll it’d taken on him was now showing. After the first sign of weakness, the rest of him had started to crumble, as if one crack was all it took to trigger a complete breakdown.

For all intents and purposes, Tsukishima was a walking corpse.

Kuroo’s concern mixed with his irritation. It was a ridiculous stunt, fueled by some mulish desire and unknown energy—and Tsukishima clearly didn’t know his own limits. He was going to drive himself into the ground, where no one could save him.

Or maybe he _did_ know his limits, and that had been his intention all along.

Still, even that didn’t make sense – if Tsukishima had wanted to remain on Earth so badly, then what was the point of running himself to extinction? None of it made sense to Kuroo, but then again, Tsukishima was likely warped from wearing his glamour for so long, logic skewed by emotion. Maybe it was something Kuroo couldn’t sense or understand. Perhaps it was something he’d _never_ understand.

With another irritated noise, he shifts, legs hanging down from his perch on a tree branch. His gaze flicks back to the apartment as Yamaguchi laughs, suddenly, bright and pleased.

His light almost overpowers Tsukishima’s. With a twist of anger in his gut, Kuroo stands, brow creasing. Yamaguchi was nice enough, in his own way, but above all the fact remained that he was slowly draining the life from Tsukishima.

It takes less than a moment for Kuroo to make his decision, then. He’d interfere one more time, just to see what the following result would be, and then… he’d go from there.

He flicks one last cursory glance at them, amber flickering around him in burning fragments. Just before he goes, the air blurs, and for a moment their colors seem to blend into one, brightness even all around—and then he’s gone, air crackling in his wake.

__

* * *

 

Despite how much Yamaguchi loved his job at the bakery, it was nearly unbearable in the early summer heat.

The glass cases full of pastries were refrigerated, but the rest of the bakery was not. The owner hadn’t really given a reason for it, shrugging off complaints with an apologetic _“money problems, sorry”_ and, well—no one could really stay mad at him for long. He was a good man, kind with an infectiously eager personality—even being around him was energizing, so Yamaguchi tolerated the oppressive heat with little complaint.

The lack of air conditioning combined with the roaring ovens in the back made Yamaguchi feel like he was the one being baked. Staring at a row of cookies, he silently sympathizes with them, elbows resting on the sticky counter.

There’s a faint breeze, provided by a window they’d cracked open, but even that hardly brings any relief.

So, Yamaguchi suffers in silence, subjected to Hinata’s melodramatic whining.

“It’s _sooo_ hot,” he moans, banging his forehead against the counter. Yamaguchi watches him wearily – when Hinata straightens up again, he silently takes a rag and wipes the spot the cashier’s forehead had left on the counter. “We’re going to die in here.” He laments, dragging his hands down his face as he bemoans their ultimately tragic fate.

Yamaguchi would agree, but the heat makes him sleepy, so all he does is offer a tired blink, swaying on top of his stool.

For once, Tsukishima was nowhere in sight. When he’d followed Yamaguchi into the store, making quiet conversation even as he trailed him to the clock-in machine, he’d suddenly become very aware of the fact that Hinata was openly gaping at him from behind the cash register. He’d made eye contact for several seconds, gaze suddenly sharp and searching—then, after some time, he’d looked away, expression sour.

Maybe he didn’t like Hinata. Yamaguchi couldn’t really figure it out: but then again, he’d learned not to question Tsukishima’s seemingly inexplicable quirks too much, lest he get pulled into another existential crisis.

Tsukishima had turned back to him, thoughtfulness replacing the irritation on his face. His gaze had roved around the shop, eyes narrowed, as if struggling to see something, before his eyes had dropped to Yamaguchi once more.

He’d muttered something about going to check something out, before casting one last look at Hinata and stalking back out the door.

The angel had taken to walking, recently. At first, Yamaguchi had been eternally grateful, because the incidents of brief terror that followed Tsukishima’s spontaneous materializations had decreased dramatically, but it’d slowly become worrying.

Tsukishima now followed him around like a lost puppy, looking sour, hands shoved into his pockets. He could still pop in and out, of course, but he’d slowly been doing it with less and less frequency. It’d added to his newly subdued demeanor, and, well – it was all a little pathetic. Yamaguchi felt bad for him.

Even with all of that, Tsukishima remained as sharp-tongued and mysteriously cosmic as ever, so Yamaguchi had half-convinced himself that he was imagining things.

Thankfully, Hinata hadn’t said anything, even as Tsukishima’s retreating back had disappeared through the door and out of view. Perhaps he sensed Yamaguchi’s worry. That, or his brain was too heat-addled to think of something properly invasive to say.

Small blessings.

“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” Hinata says suddenly. Yamaguchi blinks over at him, realizing he’d been staring blankly at the wall, before he makes a vague noise of dissent. Hinata rolls his eyes.

“Don’t deny it,” Hinata points a pen at him. “You were good at hiding it before, but now you’re not.” He sounds triumphant. “I knew it.”

Yamaguchi stares at him, bleary-eyed. He can’t find it in him to argue, now – Hinata’s convinced himself of his own convictions, so he’s not going to try and tell him otherwise.

Even so, it makes him think. Tsukishima is – well, okay, he’s definitely attractive, but that wasn’t exactly the first thing he’d noticed about him, given that he was _drowning_ at the time. After he’d finally stopped vomiting water, it’d been Tsukishima’s eyes that he’d noticed first. From the very start, they’d been the thing that intrigued him the most: of course, it was because they were unnatural, but even compared to all the other angels he’d met, they were stunning in color.

As for their relationship, well – it wasn’t friendship, that was for sure. Even from the beginning, it’d gone beyond that. The term _bonded beings_ comes to mind, and Yamaguchi shakes his head. That was what happened when something was in tune with the core of your very being, he supposed. Their relationship seemed to be more of a civil companionship than anything – except, wait, no, that sounds like some sort of marriage – and Yamaguchi wrinkles his nose in sudden confusion.

Hinata watches his face twist into various expressions, infinitely amused.

Yamaguchi pointedly ignores him, suddenly-restless fingers tapping against the countertop. There was trust between them, obviously, a deeper bond: and affection, sure, but that surely came with the fact that Tsukishima looked after him; and… well, it was only natural they they’d grow close to each other.

“Ah,” Hinata sighs, clasping his hands together even as he flutters his eyelashes, “young love.” He makes a kissy face at Yamaguchi, who vaguely considers pushing him off of his stool.

His mind races, now, bewilderment stamping itself plain over his face. He’d never really stopped to consider his relationship with Tsukishima – it just was, like the angel had simply become some permanent fixture in his life. And, as he was wont to do, Yamaguchi was now overthinking it.

Comfort, amiability, affection, trust – surely these were the things that made the foundation of a romantic relationship, but something was surely missing from that equation. Yamaguchi wracks his mind for an answer when it suddenly hits him – mutual attraction. Of course. _Desire_.

Well, Tsukishima was good-looking – what with the fairness of his features (when he wasn’t scowling, at least), the intensity of those flickering eyes, his undoubtedly strong hands, his…

Oh, _no._

“ _Nooo_ ,” Yamaguchi moans, echoing his thoughts as he buries his face in his hands, “oh, _no_ , he’s _hot_ ,” he continues, voice muffled behind his hands. Hinata laughs, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

Yamaguchi seriously considers pushing him off his stool.

This couldn’t develop, not _now_ – Hinata had planted the stupid idea in his head, and now it was _never_ going to go away – he’d never be able to look Tsukishima in the eye again. Everything was _ruined_.

“You know,” Hinata muses, “having a hot boyfriend isn’t usually something people complain about.”

Yamaguchi drags his hands down his face, considering the far wall over the tips of his fingers. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening. It had to be the fact that Tsukishima had saved his life – the comfort and safety that came with that knowledge were emotions that he’d inevitably associated with the angel. That was probably the reason for whatever supposed attraction Hinata had hinted at. The concept of security that he’d attached to Tsukishima was _surely_ the only thing he was thinking of.

_Fuck._

He shoots a vicious stare at Hinata from out of the corner of his eye, hands falling from his face – before he can think of anything else to say, however, the back doors open with a blast of heat.

Yamaguchi and Hinata groan simultaneously, turning to face where a sweaty-looking Kageyama emerges from the hell that was the actual baking room. He eyes them both cautiously, doors swinging shut behind him.

“It’s _awful_ back there,” he mutters, slowly making his way over to the iced coffee machine. Which, apparently, the bakery had the money to replace – but no money to install an air conditioner. Yamaguchi offers the machine a cranky stare, too.

“Sucks to be you,” Hinata says cheerily. Kageyama frowns at him from where he’s filling a plastic coffee cup, the crunching of ice audible above the muffled buzzing of the ovens behind closed doors. “Are you on break now?” he queries, pointedly ignoring the baker’s stare.

“Yeah. For about five minutes.” Kageyama mumbles into his drink.

He looks tired, Yamaguchi notes with a start. Dark bags ringed his eyes – Yamaguchi hadn’t noticed those before, weird – and above them, his eyes are glassy, distant and unfocused. That’s definitely strange. His stare was almost always bright and calculating, regardless of mood. Yamaguchi squints, trying to get a clearer look – something about that didn’t seem right, somehow, as if Kageyama wasn’t entirely there, half-asleep, half-hypnotized, maybe…

Something about that is alarmingly familiar. Yamaguchi’s brow creases.

Before he can think on it more, a disturbing _bang_ suddenly echoes from the back room. All three of them look around, concern mirrored in Hinata’s face.

“What was that?” he asks uneasily, voice suddenly devoid of any humor. Kageyama blinks several times, as if trying to clear something from his eyes—

—and then there’s a deafening _roar_.

For several horrifying seconds, Yamaguchi can see the roaring wall of billowing flame slam through the doors towards them, and then – nothing.

He’s aware of himself burning. His skin crackles, flaking to nothingness even as he stands – Christ, _fuck_ , he can feel his eyes _melting_ , and he’d be sick if he wasn’t already literally being incinerated. There’s a strong smell of burnt meat, and he realizes that it’s _him_ , being cooked alive in the midst of a howling storm of flame.

He can’t see, can’t breathe, can only feel as his muscles boil to liquid, bare bones charring. It’s dry, searing every part of him to dust, frying his nerves to nothingness—

Something slams into him, then.

It’s familiar in its blaze of energy, and Yamaguchi dimly thinks _Tsukishima_ , before a wave of fury hits him, just as paralyzing as the flames themselves.

Yamaguchi tumbles onto the ground, skidding across the asphalt. The world spins around him as he gasps, throat burning as his lungs sew themselves back together. It’s just like every other time, his body shaking apart and coming back together – but it’s painful, now, agonizingly slow, friction burning along and in between each cell.

He’s falling inside his own body, limbs still even as he careens into some chasm, vision swimming as his eyes re-form into something solid once more. He’s barely aware of the sobbing hiccups that shake his chest, burnt skin scraping against the hot ground beneath him.

Tsukishima’s barely visible out of the corner of his vision, blurring and flickering as the bakery burns just behind him. Smoke pours from the ruined windows, flames licking the sky, the sound of it all muffled as it reaches Yamaguchi’s ringing ears.

“How,” Tsukishima says, breathless and furious, “does this keep _happening?_ I—I stepped away for _two seconds_ —what’s _wrong_ with you?”

He sounds slightly hysterical, almost, half bent over with his hands planted on his thighs. Yamaguchi’s not sure he’s seeing right, but it looks like his shoulders are heaving with heavy breaths—and somehow, that accusation doesn’t seem fair. Even with his half-conscious body, he struggles to prop himself up on an elbow, muscles shrieking in protest.

“I didn’t—“ Yamaguchi pauses, nausea rolling through him – he pales, voice barely a whisper, eyes fixated on the ruined building still burning behind the angel. “—I didn’t do anything.” He rasps, feeling his lips crack, blood beading on the broken skin.

Nothing seems to stick in his mind. Yamaguchi watches oily smoke climb high into the sky, listening to the sound of Tsukishima's breathing as it gradually slows down. As his senses return, raw and new in his body, a slow sense of foreboding begins to dawn on him. He stares over at Tsukishima, whose eyes are still on the smoking bakery, before bursting out in a panic—

“—are they still in there?” he gasps, sitting bolt upright. His stomach drops right through the floor, horror freezing him in place. He might pass out. “—Tsukishima?”

The angel doesn’t look at him.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi manages, voice high, “oh, _no_ —no, _shit_ —“ he forces himself onto a knee, wobbling, before surging to a standing position, dizziness immediately hitting him like a truck. There was no way—they _couldn’t_ be, they had to be alive – the deaths were his, they weren’t supposed to be involved, it wasn’t _fair_ —

He lurches forward, fear driving him towards the remains of the bakery, before Tsukishima catches him in an iron grip.

“No,” Yamaguchi sobs, hands pushing at the angel’s arms, “no, let me _go_ —they’re not—they _can’t_ be—“ Tsukishima shows no sign of budging as he keeps an arm wrapped tight around Yamaguchi’s middle. “I have to—please, let go, _please_ —“ his eyes sting with tears, vision blurring again as he struggles, chest heavy and tight with growing anguish.

“You’re not going in there. “ Tsukishima says quietly, and Yamaguchi goes limp in his arms, crying, the angel barely keeping him upright. “I’m sorry.”

Yamaguchi can feel tears burning where they drip down his face, onto his throat and arms, stinging where they hit scalded skin. It wasn’t _fair_ , he _shouldn’t_ be the only survivor, they shouldn’t even be _dead_ in the first place—and the angel wouldn’t even let him go _see_ —

“Get off,” he wrestles with Tsukishima’s arms again, body trembling with the effort, “get _off_ of me, Tsukishima, let _go!”_

As Yamaguchi gasps out his desperate plea, Tsukishima finally releases him, and he stumbles back, away from the angel and the bakery both. He angrily scrubs at his eyes as his legs tremble, teeth gritted to bite back the sobs that build in his chest.

“You couldn’t—“ his head spins, and he takes an unsteady step back, “you’re supposed to—you’re supposed to _protect_ —what kind of guardian angel _are_ you? You just let people die?” he wails, hands fisting into his hair, eyes half-shut with overwhelming despair.

“That’s not my job.” The angel bites out. “They’re not—my responsibility, Yamaguchi, I’m not supposed to look after anyone but _you_ —“

“But you _could_ have saved them,” Yamaguchi whispers, barely a breath, gaze trained on the ground, “you could’ve, you had the _chance_ to, you’re supposed to be powerful, and you just— _didn’t_ —“

Another heaving sob interrupts him, breaking his sentence into fragments. When Tsukishima reaches out for him once more, Yamaguchi jerks back, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He feels dizzy again, like he’s going to faint, anguish thick in his throat.

Every time before, Yamaguchi had been the only one hurt in the seemingly-freak accidents that’d taken his life – but now he wasn’t the only one who’d died, but he was the only one who’d gotten his life back. His shoulders shake again, teeth chattering with unshed tears.

His own incidents had seemed isolated, before, like some strange dream, but now—it was _real_ , glaringly so, a horror movie drawn straight from the stuff of nightmares. It wasn’t fair that Yamaguchi got to come out of this alive, that he was the only one—guilt rips through him, and he heaves a shuddering breath, hands falling from his face.

Tsukishima watches him carefully, face infuriatingly impassive. Didn’t he _care?_ Was this just another box to mark on his number-of-deaths checklist?

Suddenly angry, Yamaguchi rubs his eyes with his forearm, sniffling.

“Bring them back,” he says, voice rough and shaky, “go… bring them _back_.”

Yamaguchi can’t articulate more than that, blood and smoke in his lungs as wetness drips from his face. Tsukishima sets his jaw, chin lifting, and he shakes his head. Despite the gesture, however, the angel’s eyes flash with a guarded uncertainty.

“Tsukishima,” Yamaguchi repeats, voice an octave higher, “this—they’re _dead_ , you didn’t _save_ them—they’re not supposed to be—“

“I can’t.” Tsukishima cuts him off, voice harsh. “I can’t interfere, that’s out of my power—“

“If,” Yamaguchi interrupts him, high-pitched and trembling, “if you’ve ever… ever considered yourself – my _guardian_ , or my _friend_ , or—“ he swallows, unsure, “if you want to _protect_ me—“ A vague, unsteady gesture at the bakery, “then go bring them back.” Shuddering breaths punctuate his words, before his voice cracks, desperate and anguished.

The angel looks pained. _Good,_ Yamaguchi thinks viciously, shame and anger rolling through his body as another wheezing sob escapes him.

Tsukishima considers the sky, silent between Yamaguchi’s hiccupping breaths and the rumbles of the burning building. There’s something infinitely torn in his eyes, unsure, even as angry resignation settles itself on his face.

“Close your eyes,” he mutters, not looking at Yamaguchi, who stares at the back of his head, _“do it_ , Yamaguchi.”

And he does.

The world slowly fades to black around him, the crackling of fire and breaking rock suddenly louder than they’d been. For a moment, nothing happens, and he’s tempted to open his eyes once more—but then a strange wind blows over him, and everything goes deathly quiet.

There’s a shrill whistle, piercing and clear, before a resounding **noise** shakes the earth beneath him. Yamaguchi loses his balance and tumbles onto the ground, gritting his teeth as pain erupts all along his burned skin. There’s a light, bright enough to blind him through his closed eyes, and he lifts his hands to rub the stinging white from behind his eyelids.

The wind tugs at him, cold and whispering, and Yamaguchi suddenly feels _afraid_.

The light grows and grows, and Yamaguchi’s head throbs with the intensity of it, bones rattling and clicking together. Then, finally, there’s another two whistles, and then following explosions – like fireworks, Yamaguchi thinks, and then the wind dies down to nothing, light dissipating.

As he opens his eyes, blinking white imprints from his gaze, he sees the shadows of two pillars of light fade out of existence.

His breaths come ragged, burning in his stinging throat as he props himself up on his elbows once more. There’s a soft, almost inaudible fluttering noise, then, and Tsukishima fades into existence in front of him.

The angel’s complexion is grey, almost, eyes guttering with faint light. He looks like he’s about to topple over, and Yamaguchi feels a brief pang in his heart, before his previous anger returns. He lets his head fall back.

“All of this,” he begins thickly, blinking ash out of his eyes, “started happening after you showed up.” After swallowing, he hesitantly brings his gaze back to Tsukishima. “Are you the one causing it?” Yamaguchi’s voice breaks, and he heaves out a delirious laugh. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he lets himself fall back onto the pavement, staring up at the smoky sky. Distantly, he hears sirens, no doubt on their way to the still-smoldering bakery. Swallowing hard again, Yamaguchi covers his eyes once more, body wracked with shudders.

“Go away,” he says, voice wobbling. “Leave me alone. I don’t want—I didn’t ask for _any_ of this.” As the sirens grow louder, he exhales another shaky sob.

Yamaguchi’s life had slowly become its own special hell, interspersed with flashes of gold—but it was hell, nonetheless, each moment laden with the fear of death. He could’ve gone his whole life without knowing any of the things he did now.

Why did Tsukishima come to him? Why did Yamaguchi let him stay? He doesn’t know—doesn’t know anything, just knows that he hurts, hurts all over, that he lost his friends, that he’s scared and wants it to _stop_.

“Leave.” He says again, weak and quiet.

There’s silence, and then a near-silent flicker of sound.

Yamaguchi looks up at the sky, blue tarnished by smudges of black as the sirens grow ever closer.

* * *

 

 _A miracle,_ they’d called it.

The doctors had declared it a miracle, bewildered, but thrilled nonetheless. How all three of them had managed to escape the fire (some sort of gas leak, they’d yet to confirm anything), no one had any idea, but in the end everyone was willing to shove that detail aside in the face of the fact that they were all alive.

In the hospital, Hinata had cried on Yamaguchi’s chest: he was _so worried, so glad he was okay, I’m so happy we’re all okay_ , and it was all Yamaguchi could do to not shove him off and run home.

The fire was _his_ fault— _he_ was the accident-prone one, _he_ caused it, and if he hadn’t been there then nothing would've happened. He wants to tell Hinata that they _had_ died, that they’d burned to ash in the wake of his revival, but Hinata’s tear-streaked face is enough to keep him quiet.

Upon being discharged, he goes straight home and locks himself in his apartment.

People had tried to come talk to him—there were knocks on his door, ringing phones gone unanswered, mail ignored and piling up at his door. It was all Yamaguchi could do not to scream, overcome by his own guilt and fear—how could he ever think of anything else? Every time he closed his eyes, the image of billowing flames sprung out at him, the sensation of fire ripping his skin from his bones hitting him anew.

He sleeps on the couch or not at all, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, the food in his fridge going uneaten. There was no way he could sleep, or eat, or even think—he doesn’t know why the same memories keep hitting him again, again, it’d been _days_ and the memories still intrude like it happened just yesterday.

It’s not like he could feel hungry, anyways, not even if he wanted to. The storm of fearguiltshame _rage_ builds in him, coiling tight in every empty space in his body, keeping him awake and shaking through the nights.

The worst thing is that he’s _alone._

He’d managed to chase away the only good, stable thing he had in his life, but now he doesn’t even deserve it, so he doesn’t want it—Yamaguchi wants to be alone; he’s made it so that he is, but there’s no one he wants to talk to, wants to see, wants…

He doesn’t know what he wants.

Yamaguchi suddenly wakes one morning in a cold sweat, chased by thoughts of roaring flames. It’s nothing he’s not used to, but it shakes him to the core every time. Teeth chattering, he throws the covers off of himself, slowly whirring back into motion as he restlessly walks into his front room.

He stops dead when he sees a newspaper neatly slid under his door, resting innocently on his welcome mat. There’s a pause, and then he’s cautiously pacing over to it, bending down to pick it up with trembling hands.

The headline informs him that with the success of a massive fundraiser, the community had raised enough money to rebuild the bakery.

The papers flutter under the force of his shudders, and he drops the paper, hands lifting to cover his slowly-burning eyes. He can’t go back. There’s no way he could ever go back, now, not with the knowledge of his guilt dragging him down.

His chest burns, as it always does, noiseless tears creeping up the back of his throat.

There’s a whisper of sound, then, and he glances down at the paper. It’s still, unmoving and unassuming, and he casts a slow look over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a puff of golden feathers.

There’s nothing there.

The apartment rings with a deafening silence, filling the spaces between walls and furniture, rooms dark and empty. Yamaguchi stops, biting his lip to hold back the pained noises that seemed to constantly threaten him—but to no avail. He cries almost silently, breath shuddering out of him in weak gasps.

Overpowered by the sound of his tears, there’s another shift of movement, silent and watchful—and then it’s fading again, along with its source, as if it never existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always feel terrible writing yamaguchi dying... my poor son
> 
> as always thank you for reading i appreciate you all so much   
> xoxoxo


	7. REKINDLE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The firepit sputters and flickers, but it won't go out.

**[ KUROO, RANK V GUARDIAN ]**

“You,” Kuroo heaves out a breath, “are an _idiot_.”

When Tsukishima had suddenly materialized in front of him, pallid and silent, Kuroo had only a second to react before he’d collapsed right into his arms.

What was left of his _cosmos_ had guttered unsteadily, almost flickering out of existence, like there was some great wind gusting through him - it was without a word that he’d promptly toppled over, a puff of golden dust sloughing off his skin where he’d slumped against Kuroo.

How Tsukishima had found him, he had no idea, but lingering on that was useless—with a muffled curse, he’d heaved Tsukishima into his arms, before immediately blinking out of sight.

The only safe place he could think of was the In-Between. They’d popped into existence just as another wayward Guardian had been passing through – they’d skittered to the side, startled, before being sucked right into Time’s Grip (oops) – before he’d staggered under Tsukishima’s dead weight, unceremoniously dropping him on the ground.

Even as he’d thudded into the cloud, grey briefly sinking underneath him, Tsukishima had showed no sign of waking. His eyes flickered beneath their lids, as if he were sleeping, but the near-extinguished glow just under his skin indicated that it was something more.

Kuroo had puffed out a worried noise, sinking to his knees just beside the other angel’s head. Tentatively, he’d placed a hand on Tsukishima’s forehead, feeling the warmth there fade in and out. He was unstable, teetering on some precipice, grey matter twitching under him as if sensing this as well.

All he could do was watch Tsukishima’s chest shallowly rise and fall. Hopefully, it would continue to do so – he looked dangerously close to fading completely.

After several tense minutes, Tsukishima’s light had slowly stopped flickering, evening out to a steady glow. It was still faint – much fainter than before, but it was there, which meant Tsukishima wasn’t dead.

Yet.

He’d seen the stunt Tsukishima had pulled. Every other angel on Earth likely had, as well. The two columns of light that’d pierced the sky had set off an invisible alarm, frequencies vibrating in and along strains of sound only they could hear. It’d prompted an uneasy stir, some distant wind rippling through every single one of them.

Tsukishima had fucked up.

But then again, so had Kuroo: he hadn’t meant to catch the other two humans in the crossfire, but with the time that’d passed since his last interference, Kuroo had jumped at the first opportunity to get at Yamaguchi. While Tsukishima had briefly disappeared to investigate something, Kuroo had popped in and fiddled with something inside their baker’s mind. It wasn’t fair, Kuroo knew, he had nothing to do with it – but given that Tsukishima had practically glued himself to Yamaguchi’s side, Kuroo had struck at the first opportunity he'd seen.

And, well, the results had been disastrous. Kuroo had been responsible for three deaths rather than one, and then – _then,_ Tsukishima had to go and act on impulse, obeying commands like some dog.

Reviving a dead human interfered with not only Time, but Fate as well – it was one thing for a Guardian to save their Shielded from the jaws of death, but it was another thing entirely to interfere in the lives of humans that weren’t under their direct care.

Fate was otherworldly. Ethereal. Terrifying. She remained unseen, as did Time, but her presence was undetectable. Time was heavy and overbearing where Fate was light, watchful, invisibly cutting and tying strings between timelines and universes.

Interfering with Fate’s job was arguably worse than messing with Time’s. Over time, the sky had filled with empty stars, the angels that once occupied them being the ones who’d gone against Fate’s wishes.

They’d never been seen again. No one had asked.

However, even though the results of Tsukishima’s actions had been glaringly obvious, there’d been no stir of movement. There’d been a brief, foreboding wind, heralding Fate’s breath with a frigid chill – but then it’d disappeared, blasted away by the force of Tsukishima tying Hinata and Kageyama’s energies back to their cores, piece by piece.

The peace was unnerving. By all rights, Tsukishima should’ve been burned to dust or spirited away on the spot, but… nothing had happened.

Even without Fate’s vengeance, Tsukishima’s actions should have wiped his _cosmos_ clean from him. But, as Kuroo was learning, strange things wrapped around Tsukishima in webs of mystery. He was almost used to it.

Without thought, he smooths his palm down Tsukishima’s cheek, allowing his own _cosmos_ to glow warm from his fingers. As his hand trails over his face, it leaves faint streaks of glowing amber, fading in its wake.

Almost immediately, Tsukishima’s breath evens out, brow smoothing as Kuroo’s palm passes over it. For a moment, he feels a brief pang of guilt – angels weren’t supposed to share _cosmos_ , not really, but he’d rather bend the rules a little than continue to let Tsukishima suffer.

He owed him at least that much.

Tsukishima stirs under his hands. With a jolt, Kuroo looks down, watching his eyes slowly flutter open. His irises are dim, still, but there’s a faint sheen of gold still stubbornly pulsing over them.

“You’re an idiot.” Kuroo reminds him, vague relief twining with his words. Tsukishima stares blankly up at him, greying eyes searching Kuroo’s face. There’s clear exhaustion lining his face, aging his youthful glamour, and for several moments Kuroo thinks he’s lost the ability to speak.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Tsukishima murmurs, voice barely audible. “That shouldn’t have happened.” He reiterates, gaze slowly shifting to rove over the swirling walls of the In-Between. Kuroo takes pause, pulling his hand back.

“What do you mean?” he asks, brow creasing with feigned confusion. Tsukishima’s eyes flick back over to him.

“That fire.” He sighs out, voice growing incrementally louder. “It wasn’t Fate’s design. Those two—weren’t supposed to die.” His eyelids droop once more. Kuroo’s stomach twists with a vague anxiety.

“Really?” he presses, playing dumb – and, oh, of course that was why Fate hadn’t interfered. Kuroo had caused deaths that weren’t meant to happen, and Tsukishima had restored them: balance had been achieved once more, and no one’d been the wiser.

Except for Kuroo, of course. And now Tsukishima, apparently.

“No.” Tsukishima says quietly. “I—I thought Fate would strike me down,” he utters a weak, dry laugh, “but she helped me.”

If Kuroo had blood, it surely would’ve run cold. For the time being, his glamour’s skin crawls, little hairs standing on end.

“There’s something… very strange happening.” Tsukishima continues, sounding tired. “None of this—it’s never been this way. I don’t get it.” He adds, voice trailing off to nothingness once more.

Kuroo watches him, saying nothing. With both of them silent, a slow whistle winds through the air, the sound of the star-wind blowing through the In-Between suddenly unbearably loud. He thinks he’d be more anxious if he could feel that deeply, but for the moment, all he can muster is a vague sense of foreboding.

His gaze slowly travels upwards, following the grey clouds to where they trickle into the sky. His last move had been a massive error on his part – everything about it was wrong, from the very concept of it to the execution – Oikawa’s orders were unfair. He didn’t want to do this. Tsukishima’s safety was important, but even with the shallow depth of his glamour’s emotional range, the guild that followed his meddling was almost too much to bear.

As always, he was torn.

Kuroo drops his attention back to Tsukishima, pausing once he sees his gaze aimed intently up at him.

Tsukishima was smart, perceptive even in his half-dead state, and the sudden thinly-veiled suspicion flickering along with his irises only served as a reminder of such. He searches Kuroo’s face for something, eyes hard, before his entire body sags once more and the harsh light fades from his eyes.

Kuroo heaves an inaudible sigh of relief.

The last thing he wanted was for all of this to come to light – Tsukishima would undoubtedly resent him forever – before they made their inevitable return to Heaven. Hopefully, star-sleep would wipe the corrosive emotion from Tsukishima, leaving him untarnished once more.

Which, again, would wipe the happiness from him, as well.

Kuroo almost wants to cry. It kept circling right back to morality: the morality of angels vs. that of humans, of which to follow the rules and obey should a final decision come to that ultimate choice.

Distracting himself, he looks down at Tsukishima’s eyes again, noting their dimness once more with a faint pang of irritation. Why was he so stubborn? Why couldn’t he just return to Heaven and abandon his fruitless efforts on Earth? Following him around and witnessing his stumbling was frustrating, achingly so. Kuroo would’ve already grabbed him and forced him back home, if he could.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have that power—all he can do is watch helplessly as the light fades from Tsukishima, draining more and more with each passing day.

The silence remains heavy between them, punctuated only by the comforting roar of space above them. Tsukishima’s eyes flicker, reflecting the light of a million far-off stars – reflecting the light of eternity. Of home.

As Kuroo watches, his eyes slowly drift shut, and the glint disappears, extinguished by the all-too-human phenomenon of sleep.

* * *

 

When Yamaguchi dreams, he dreams of fire.

Everything leading up to this point was incomparable. The drowning paled in comparison; the truck had almost faded from memory; the lightning did nothing now but to lift the hairs on the back of his neck. The fire, however, played through his mind like a track on repeat, the sound of crackling flames and crumbling rock echoing in his skull and into every corner of his nightmares.

He curses himself every time it flickers through his brain, setting memories off, triggering the now-familiar smells of singed earth and ash. Why this haunted him more than the other memories, he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but the fact remained that it continued to bar him from sleep.

Just as his eyelids would begin to sag with exhaustion, a roaring pillar of flame would jolt him back to wakefulness, and he’d totter unsteadily to his feet.

He’s only dimly aware of how long he’s locked himself in his apartment: he knows that he should leave, but the prospect of coming face-to-face with someone he knows is daunting enough to hold him back. He’d ventured outside only once, doing a brief grocery run before immediately retreating once more.

It’s probably pathetic, Yamaguchi thinks sourly, knees drawn to his chest as he disinterestedly watches the TV in front of him. It does nothing but provide color and sound in his otherwise dark apartment, but even its noise isn’t enough to keep the oppressive silence at bay. When night rolls around, there’s nothing to stand between him and his own thoughts.

So, he dreams of fire.

It replays in slow motion every time: the kitchen doors slamming open, the veritable wall of heat that tears into him before the actual flames do, the shattering of glass and the spitting pop of sugar burning bright in the air. Every time, he feels himself die again, nerves crumbling to nothing as the hot air forces his life from his body.

The following memories aren’t as intrusive, but they’re there as well: he can vaguely recall the agonizing pull of atoms back to his core, the lurch of his stomach against asphalt, the piercing shrill that’d been Tsukishima bringing life back to the rubble of the bakery.

He wants it to _stop_.

It should be easy to forget: he’d experienced trauma just like it beforehand, several times, so for the fire to linger even when the others had passed made absolutely no sense. He’d tried everything he could to alleviate his sleeplessness – every single sleep medication and aid he could get his hands on, however, had proved to be useless. Though they’d lulled him to sleep well enough, it was seemingly impossible for them to keep him that way, as crackling flames would immediately drag him back to consciousness.

Maybe it’d take a blow to the head to knock him out, Yamaguchi thinks. He’d seriously considered it, once, after glancing into the mirror and seeing the dark circles that ringed his eyes like a curse.

Even drinking himself into a stupor did nothing. He was ready to give up.

What ‘giving up’ meant, exactly, Yamaguchi had no idea – his nightmares held him in some limbo between sleep and wakefulness, disallowing him from slipping comfortably into either realm of consciousness. He was too exhausted to remain properly awake and yet too traumatized to fall asleep, leaving him hanging in a half-delirious state of being.

The worst had been when Hinata had tried to visit.

The couch he’d grown so used to waking up on had slowly become a nest of sorts. His bedroom remained unused, infuriatingly devoid of anything to distract him, so he’d remained in his front room with a pile of blankets wrapped around him.

Yamaguchi found himself cold even with the increasingly hot weather outside, so he’d kept himself cocooned in swathes of warm fabric, blissfully sheltered from the outside world—until there’d been a knock on his door.

He’d almost missed it at first, what with the blare of the TV drowning everything out, but when it came again, loud and insistent, it was impossible to ignore.

Yamaguchi had paused, moving only to turn down the volume on the remote. He wasn’t going to get up—he wasn’t even sure if his legs would carry him, at this point. As a brief pause had ensued, he’d considered turning the volume back up, writing it off as his hears playing tricks on him—but when he’d heard a familiar voice, he’d stopped short.

“Yamaguchi,” It was quiet, pleading, “I know you’re in there. Open the door.”

He’d remained silent, bleary eyes trained on the thick wooden door. It was unusual to hear Hinata so subdued, and another pang of guilt had rippled through him, deep and aching. Still, he’d stayed put, uneasy in his unresponsiveness.

“Yamaguchi.” Another knock. Insistent. “— _Tadashi._ Please.”

The weight of his name dropped like a stone in his stomach, the desperation and feeling behind it raw and pointed. Even so, Yamaguchi had kept his mouth closed, heart pounding dully in his ears. After another pause, there’d been a sigh, a shift of fabric, and then another thud against the door. It’d sounded like Hinata had let his forehead drop onto the wood.

“Okay,” Hinata had said, sounding weary and sad, “I can’t—I won’t make you come out, but,” Yamaguchi heard a wobble in his voice, “but… if you ever need anything, I’ll be here, okay?” he’d heaved a breath, allowing the silence to stretch out as if expecting a response, before the sound of retreating footsteps had echoed back to Yamaguchi’s ears.

He hadn’t bothered Yamaguchi since then.

He’s grateful for that, but at the same time, it makes him feel like he’s isolated on some distance island. The world had slowly narrowed to just his apartment, silent and empty, floating on a dead sea.

Yamaguchi wants comfort, he knows he does, but at the same time he knows he doesn’t deserve it – what had he done to warrant the company of others? Seeking out comfort and company would mean opening himself, which meant… something. It meant something dangerous and vulnerable, and with everything taken into account, Yamaguchi had had enough of any sort of danger. He was tired. He was ready for sleep.

Except sleep wouldn’t come, no matter what he did.

He’d cry, but he’d run out of tears days ago. It’s all he can do to remain upright on the couch, blankets pulled around him, mind barely a step ahead of the flames that’d chased him everywhere he went.

Yamaguchi could argue that he had one foot in the grave, but had that truly been the case, then Tsukishima would have returned to his side.

Which he hadn’t.

Without the angel, and without the comfort of familiar friends, he finds himself entirely alone—

Which, in the end, is worse than the nightmares themselves.

* * *

 

**[ KUROO, RANK V GUARDIAN ]**

“I’m going back.” Tsukishima says flatly. Kuroo whips his head around to stare.

“You can’t be serious.” He says dubiously, lofting a brow as the other angel shakes his head. After a moment, Kuroo sighs, running a hand through his hair.

After finally giving in to Kuroo’s insistence, Tsukishima had grudgingly remained in the In-Between, slowly stabilizing himself among the swirling grey clouds of space. His _cosmos_ was dangerously dim, dim enough for even him to acknowledge the danger he was in – and as such, he’d remained in a safe place, so as to not endanger himself further.

Now that he’d recovered somewhat, it seemed that he wanted to jump right back into the fray. Kuroo can’t help but to frown: he was still obviously weakened, even moreso than before, and his return to Yamaguchi’s side meant that Kuroo would have to go and interfere with their lives. Again.

Yamaguchi had only one more chance, and Tsukishima was all too aware of it. Kuroo could see the tension at his core, the corruption of worry that slowly ate away at the edges of his _cosmos_. The depth of his anxiety to return to Earth was almost palpable. Without thinking, Kuroo clears his throat.

“You’re still weak.” He points out, ignoring Tsukishima’s huff. “You’re no good to anyone if you burn yourself out now.” Despite his desperation to keep Tsukishima separate from Yamaguchi, there was genuine concern there, strong as anything – as it always came down to, every time. Tsukishima snorts, low and sardonic.

“I’m not exactly getting stronger up here, am I?” he points out, displeasure mixed in with his ironic amusement.

It was true – though he’d stabilized while resting, _cosmos_ shifting to something more solid, it hadn’t grown any brighter. He was still the same as he’d been down on Earth—less likely to gutter out at any given moment, but still just as weak as he’d been.

For a moment, Kuroo can’t think of a response. He just follows Tsukishima’s straining gaze through the hole in the floor and down to the slowly turning Earth below. He can’t actually see Yamaguchi, Kuroo knows that, but the look on his face is knowing, almost, like he can sense him nonetheless.

And while Tsukishima couldn’t actually see him, Kuroo could, making him feel all the guiltier—Yamaguchi was clearly hurting, agonizingly so, plagued with nightmares and fear in every moment.

Tsukishima surely wouldn’t want to see that – staying in the In-Between would spare him from having to see such suffering. Which was surely for the best.

“He doesn’t want you.” Kuroo says shortly, regretting the words even as they fall from his mouth. “He sent you away, remember?”

Once Tsukishima had regained enough of himself to sit up and speak, he’d relayed everything about the incident to Kuroo, who’d listened intently. He already knew all the details, of course, given that he’d been the cause of it all, but listening carefully gave him the appearance of being completely innocent and free of blame.

Which he wasn’t, obviously. Kuroo’s scope of emotion only seemed to broaden as he grappled with his own guilt every day, swallowing half-apologies every time Tsukishima spoke.

Tsukishima blinks at him, something unreadable crossing his face before his gaze floats elsewhere.

Being banned by your Shielded was a humiliating experience – to be cast away by the very thing you were supposed to protect only served to highlight any failure that’d led up to that very moment. It was jarring, all in all, to be forcibly separated from something you’d bonded yourself so close to.

“I know he doesn’t want me.” Tsukishima says quietly, drawing Kuroo’s attention. “But he needs me.”

The truth of the sentence is heartbreaking. It’s all too evident that Yamaguchi did need Tsukishima, especially now of all times – and yet, if the angel returned, they’d only continue to drain each other.

The irony would be humorous if Kuroo didn’t have to witness it firsthand.

He watches Tsukishima, jaw set with frustration. The other angel had always been immovable, stubborn and resistant to persuasion. Though it made him tough, hardy enough to blaze through the endless years of time, it was now surely going to be his downfall.

“Fine.” Kuroo says, a little sourer than he’d intended. “If you really have to.” Tsukishima gives him a cutting look, tense and aggravated, and he puts his hands up in a gesture of defense.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “you’re gonna run yourself into the ground at the rate you’re going.” When Tsukishima laughs, soft and frustrated, Kuroo’s brow creases.

“I know.” Tsukishima points out tiredly. “You’ve told me.” With that, he straightens up, rolling his shoulders – with a tiny cling, wings unfold behind him, wide and arched.

Kuroo stares — they’re ragged, now, tattered feathers fluttering around places where others had seemingly fallen out. They’re a damn wreck. It’d be a miracle if he could even fly at all – and they quiver under Kuroo’s gaze, as if aware of his criticism.

Tsukishima doesn’t look at him. He probably already knows.

Neither of them say anything, though Tsukishima remains tense, as if expecting another comment – when Kuroo continues to remain silent, he casts a vague glance back at him. He only holds the eye contact for several heartbeats, and then he’s gone with a dry rattle, a puff of feathers dusting the ground in his wake.

Kuroo watches them settle – they fade to grey as they fall, before dissolving as they hit the floor, their dust ashy and dull against the vibrancy of the sky.

* * *

 

As always, the dream is familiar.

The explosion blows the glass cases apart in slow motion, shards glittering with flickering red – everything flashes orange and black as flour and fabric alike catch fire. It’s choking, heat crawling up the back of his throat, and it’s all he can do to let the flames lick at his bones as he waits for his inevitable death.

It doesn’t come.

This is usually the point where his skin splits apart with heat, but for once, it doesn’t. Everything around him slows to a complete halt, fire and carnage frozen in place where they hover in midair. Strangely enough, he finds himself capable of movement, and he glances down at his hands to find unmarred skin.

Any pain he’d felt melts away in an instant, broken rock and glass dropping silently into the white space on either side of him. Just like that, the clamor of destruction changes to a distant white noise, the ruined bakery disappearing into nothingness around him.

The white around him shifts, gently rippling in outward patterns. Yamaguchi stares at it, fear draining from where it’s coiled tight in his chest and throat – and then, there’s something familiar flickering in the corner of his eye.

A soft gold edges in from the borders of his sight and in to the center, white slowly fading to a soft black in its wake. It’s comforting – it cushions him, and warmth envelops him from head to toe, gentle glimmers of gold floating in and out of his vision.

His limbs grow heavy – for once, he can feel his exhaustion weigh him down, pulling him into something sweet and deep. There’s one last silvery chime, gently tugging his eyelids shut, and then he’s falling into himself, the world fading around him.

\- x -

For the first time in weeks, Yamaguchi wakes up slowly.

When he blinks his eyes open, he’s greeted by the sight of muted sunbeams poking through the little crack in his drawn curtains. It takes him a moment to register exactly where he is – the couch, okay – and exactly why he felt so entirely, blissfully, completely rested.

He sits bolt upright as the memories come back to him.

The dreams of fire hadn’t pursued him through the night, for once. Soreness still aches in his limbs, but it’s from lying in one spot for so long, not from sheer exhaustion – his eyes are clear, gaze sharp and focused once more. Though left with some fogginess, his head feels less muddy, as well, the haze confusion lifted from his mind.

Cautiously, he brushes his hair out of his eyes, unused to the energy his body had seemingly forgotten it was capable of having. With that now restored, he’s hyperaware of everything around him – the cluttered coffee table, the closed windows, the musty pile of blankets around him.

Yikes. He needed a shower.

Slowly, he rises. Upon finding himself capable of standing upright once more, he stretches, wincing at the pull of fatigued muscles – but the feeling is comforting in that it’s one he thought he’d forgotten completely.

From there, time’s a blur as he remembers how to function.

He showers (it’s a long one, the nicest one he’s ever taken in his life), eats something other than instant ramen (it’s frozen pizza, but it’s something), brushes his teeth, and then finally, finally opens his windows.

Yamaguchi’s apartment lights up where sunlight embraces it, bringing life back to its dusty corners. It’s strange, he shouldn’t really feel this energized after just one full night of sleep – but he won’t question it, won’t complain, not as long as he doesn’t feel like a zombie anymore. Just feeling alive is a blessing in and of itself.

For several heartbeats, he lets himself stare out the window, eyes following the movements of people below. It’s almost cathartic, reminding himself that there’s life outside his apartment – he’d somehow managed to convince himself otherwise; the mind was a strange thing – but when he turns around, he’s quickly reminded of the fact that he’s still alone.

As bright as the room is, it’s still empty. The furniture now looks forlorn in the late afternoon light, shadows thrown long over the carpet and walls. Despite all his energy, silence still presses in around him, thick and oppressive.

After a moment, Yamaguchi realizes he’s holding his breath. He releases it in a quick exhale. Even with that faint noise, the room remains unbearably devoid of life.

So, without another word, he picks up his phone and dials Hinata’s number.

He answers on the first ring with a noise of glee. The tornado of his exuberance is almost enough to knock Yamaguchi off his feet, like some great gust of wind – after a brief exchange (Hinata dominating the conversation with excitement) Hinata declares that he’s coming over, and hangs up with a click.

Yamaguchi’s secretly pleased that it’s just Hinata when he opens the door – he wasn’t sure he could handle anyone else at the moment; even Hinata’s company was pushing it a bit – and he beams up at Yamaguchi, tin-foil wrapped plate in hand.

After he sets it down on some surface, he hugs Yamaguchi. It’s a fierce thing, surprisingly strong given his stature – and with a faint jolt of surprise, he notices that Hinata’s crying on his chest again.

Then again, it’s not really a surprise – he was a teary kind of guy, prone to emotional outbursts – but it’s enough to make Yamaguchi smile, mouth twitching even as Hinata leaves little wet spots on the front of his t-shirt. It’s enough to make the walls vibrate with light and sound (Yamaguchi can definitely see why Kageyama likes him so much – he’s a ball of bright passion, buzzing and glowing with something warm) and Yamaguchi feels something in his chest shift just a little.

The plate turns out to be loaded with cookies. Yamaguchi’s eternally grateful – the small blessings continue to pile up as Hinata carries on a mostly one-sided conversation, allowing him to sit in his own comfortable silence. Hinata rambles on about the various goings-on in his life: the rebuilding of the bakery, the announcement of a training camp trip in Tokyo for the team, a cool new recipe he’d found for double-chocolate peanut butter cookies—

When his bubbling energy simmers down, however, the look he gives Yamaguchi is one of fond concern.

“We were all worried, you know.” He points out. Yamaguchi’s stomach flips at the word ‘we’. “You locked yourself up for two weeks—no one could reach you. It was kinda scary.” His smile twists into something a little sad.

Yamaguchi offers him a laugh, quiet and unsure. Hinata’s presence makes something feel less empty, but guilt still nags at him, keeping him strung out and nervous. He wants to tell Hinata everything – his expression is so bright and earnest, open and understanding – but there’s nothing he could say that could ever begin to describe exactly what had transpired.

“Sorry.” He offers instead, voice soft. “I just—coping, you know?” his smile is weak, and Hinata wrinkles his nose. “I guess I don’t deal with things very well.”

Hinata tsks, glancing over at the slowly-darkening windowsill. Yamaguchi follows his gaze, watching the fading disc of the setting sun sink behind a row of trees. It’d been early evening when he’d finally woken up, so it made sense for the summer sun to set now, but – the look on Hinata’s face is familiar. It’s the same one he makes when he only has ten minutes left in his shift, when the clock-in machine beckons him close—

Maybe it’s for the best, Yamaguchi thinks. He’s tired again, aching exhaustion coming over him once more. As grateful as he’d been for the undisturbed rest, two weeks of sleeplessness weren’t likely to be resolved in one night.

Gently, Yamaguchi clears his throat, and Hinata’s gaze snaps back around. He’d miss Hinata’s reinvigorating company, but still, it was likely better that he left – it looked as if he wanted to, anyways, given the poorly-hid hopefulness on his face.

“I’m sorry,” Yamaguchi begins, apologetic, “but, um—I’m a little tired… do you think maybe we could catch up a little later?” he finishes, slow even as Hinata nods quickly.

“Sure,” he answers easily, standing. “Don’t worry about it—call me though, okay? I’ll bring some of the others next time.” Hinata’s voice remains cheery as he squeezes Yamaguchi tight in another hug, smile genuine and bright. “Bye! Also—“ he points a menacing finger, “—you’d better eat those cookies.” Then, with a final wink, he’s gone, as quickly as he’d come.

Silence falls once more. It’s not nearly as depressing as it had been, however—Hinata leaves a lingering warmth in his wake, and it’s almost enough to drown out the slow darkness creeping in at the edges of the room.

Shaking his head, Yamaguchi stands, willing himself not to linger on the thought. He busies himself, gently closing the windows and straightening the clutter on the coffee table, before ferrying the plate of cookies off to the kitchen. (He eats one. They’re excellent. It’s all he can do to not inhale them all on the spot.)

As he meanders back into his front room, he pauses to note the pile of blankets on the sofa. It was probably high time for him to return to his actual bed. With a faint sigh, Yamaguchi makes his way back over to the couch, eyeing the makeshift nest with some distaste. Grabbing the ends of a blanket, he pulls at it, shaking it out with a sharp motion.

As it comes free, it asserts itself into a smooth shape before coming to rest on the couch once more – but before Yamaguchi can entertain the thought of folding it, something bright catches his eye.

Out of the folds, a pale feather snaps out into the air, flowing gently as it drifts lazily down. Yamaguchi stares at it, blankets momentarily forgotten. It’s slow, a little dim, but still there, shining defiantly – as it comes to rest atop the blankets, Yamaguchi allows a thick silence to fall, before uttering a quiet noise of disbelief.

The blanket falls from his hands as he reaches out for it, cautious, half-expecting it to dissolve the moment he touches it. As he scoops it into his hand, however, it remains stubbornly solid, shifting in some distant wind. It’s like holding a sunbeam: there’s no weight to it, but it’s warm, throwing faint beams of light onto his skin.

He’d almost forgotten. Not that it could’ve stayed out of his mind for long, of course – the emptiness of his apartment would’ve swiftly reminded him, as a matter of course – but until now, he’d managed to temporarily put Tsukishima out of his mind.

Yamaguchi’s not sure how, as he turns the feather over in his hands – how could he ever forget the angel? Despite the ache in his chest at the very thought of him, despite his absence, he was absolutely too important to be forgotten. Yamaguchi cared about him far too much to forget him. Now, as warmth peeks from between his fingertips, it’s difficult to think of anything else.

Tsukishima had obviously been here – but thinking on it, that made sense, didn’t it? There was no way Yamaguchi’s dreams could have stopped so suddenly. On his own, he wasn’t so great at handling things – a divine intervention was likely the only thing that could’ve set him at ease once more.

Which meant, in essence, that despite Yamaguchi’s cruel dismissal, the angel had returned to save him once more – from his own mind, this time.

Yamaguchi sits on the couch with a thump, eyes still glued to the feather in his hands. He still didn’t know much about the whole ‘guardian angel’ process – he knew next to nothing, in fact – but he’d figured some time ago that if Yamaguchi had sent him away, then it meant that Tsukishima would have to stay away.

The guilt of making Tsukishima leave had plagued him just as much as the other thoughts had – he hadn’t been fair or rational, and yet the angel had left without a word, sick-looking and silent. That was what’d worried Yamaguchi the most. It’d been practically impossible to ignore Tsukishima’s ashen complexion, and even with his anger and derision Yamaguchi found it in him to be concerned – but before anything could be said, he’d disappeared, leaving Yamaguchi alone amongst the smoking rubble.

Now, regret was the only thing he could muster, besides concern – any frustration he’d had melted away as he’d closed himself off to the world. The absence of someone so full of light and comfort had been a blow to the gut, however. It was almost impossible to stay mad at the angel for long.

Yamaguchi misses him – and it doesn’t feel so ridiculous now, not with a palm full of sunlight, glittering up at him. But he was gone, he’d send him away, who knows where he’d gone—

—but even so, he’d returned long enough to help Yamaguchi one more time. There had to be some way Yamaguchi could bring him back – he still had one more life with him. Spending it apart would be meaningless.

Almost without thought, he clasps his hands together, feather pressed in between his palms.

He wants to laugh – he hasn’t prayed in years, not since he was a restless child barely tall enough to peer over the back of a pew, clumsy fingers wrinkling the delicate papers of the thick hymn books. Still, it seemed like the most logical thing to do: what better way to send out a Heaven-wise broadcast than to pray?

Hesitant, he closes his eyes, fingers folding over each other. The feather hums in his hands.

“Tsukishima.” Yamaguchi begins slowly, pausing to search for words. “I—um—you’ve been gone a little while, and I was wondering if…” he swallows, “if I could ask you to come back? I know I told you to leave.” There’s another pause as he heaves a breath – to his surprise, he feels his throat burn, a sudden weight heavy in his chest.

“But,” he plows on, voice wobbling, “I think, maybe… you should be here – to finish your job, you know?” Yamaguchi stops again, lips trembling as he stumbles over his words. “Um—but not just for that, uh – I guess I’m a little—“ A faint, watery laugh. “I guess it feels a little weird when you’re not around.”

The room remains stubbornly silent. Yamaguchi’s heart sinks. However, he determinedly squeezes his hands tighter, brow furrowing.

“I’m sorry.” He says, firm even with his shaking voice. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have… s-said those things, and—“ Yet another laugh, self-deprecating and embarrassed. “I… want you to come back.”

The feather shivers, and Yamaguchi can feel a palpable shift of temperature.

“Amen.” He adds, as an afterthought.

Almost immediately, the air stills. Yamaguchi holds his breath – without warning, the feather in his hands dissolved, crumbling to dust in his palms – but then there’s a faint wind, whispering as it curls around him, tugging at his hair and clothes.

He keeps his eyes squeezed shut as it grows stronger, swirling into a funnel, a quiet voice audible amongst the noise – Yamaguchi can’t quite make out what it’s saying, but before he can decipher it, the wind comes to a halt with a gasp of breath.

The silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s alive. Expectant. Waiting.

Slowly, Yamaguchi opens his eyes.

Like a ghost, Tsukishima stands in front of him, expressionless and quiet.

“Oh!” Yamaguchi shoots to his feet, heart pounding. “Oh, you—it worked? Are you—uh—“ He lets himself trail off as he stares at the angel, mouth hanging open. He’d only half-expected the prayer to work, as ridiculous as it had sounded – and yet, here Tsukishima stood, solid and real before him.

“I’m sorry.” He blurts again, eyes starting to sting. “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have—“

Tsukishima holds a hand up, and Yamaguchi skids to a stop, half-formed apologies dying on his tongue. He watches the angel’s expression – it’s almost unreadable, as usual, and for a moment, he thinks Tsukishima’s going to reject his apology. The silence between them rings full, pregnant and heavy.

“No.” Tsukishima says, finally. “I’m sorry.” His expression twists into a familiar half-smile, and Yamaguchi’s heart stutters. “I haven’t been a very good guardian angel, have I?”

Yamaguchi stares, before he laughs, genuine this time – it’s a relieved sound, hiccupping as he brings his hands up to wipe at his watery eyes. It’s a moment before he responds, words muffled behind his hands.

“You’re doing fine.” He assures, voice shaking almost out of control. “I’m alive—I’m standing here, aren’t I?” His hands fall from his face, and he sniffles, smiling pleased at the angel.

“So you are.” Tsukishima murmurs, eyeing him curiously, as if in a new light. Yamaguchi watches him uncertainly, noting his pallid face – he still looks unusually pale, drawn, dark circles still purple and black under his eyes. It’s worrying.

“You look exhausted.” Yamaguchi blurts, shifting his weight. Tsukishima stares right back at him, before letting out a small, amused snort.

“So do you.” He points out. There’s another pause – then he laughs, and Yamaguchi can’t help but to laugh with him, feeling something bright blossom just behind his ribs. “I suppose we make quite a pair, don’t we?” Tsukishima adds, lofting a brow.

“I guess so.” Yamaguchi breathes out a chuckle, eyes caught in the angel’s stare.

His heart beats staccato rhythms against his bones, warm and fluttering. Yamaguchi’s suddenly very, very aware of their proximity – his hands twitch, and he swallows quietly, gaze focused on the swirling streams of gold slowly rotating around Tsukishima’s pupils. Even just being near him like this made him warm – the angel practically radiates a gentle heat, like a fireplace, something familiar and comforting after a winter day.

“Thank you.” Yamaguchi eventually says, starstruck. “For—for the death thing. You know, um—the sleep.” His words come out breathier than he’d expected.

Tsukishima stares at him, another smile quirking his mouth – but it’s different, this time, fond and knowing. He says nothing. Yamaguchi opens and closes his mouth several times, feeling a little ridiculous, a little light-headed, face burning—

“I missed you.” He says, an almost-whisper.

Yamaguchi almost expects the hand that comes up to cup his jaw, palm warm against his freckled skin, touch gentle and grounding. The angel’s thumb rubs gently over his cheek, brushing over a cluster of constellations, and Yamaguchi’s pulse flutters – his chest feels tight, stomach warm and nervous, throat thick with apprehension.

“Tadashi.” Tsukishima sighs, eyelids half-lowered. The sound of his name on the angel’s tongue makes Yamaguchi’s head go a bit fuzzy, cheeks suddenly hot as the angel dips his head, forehead bumping against Yamaguchi’s. “You can’t even begin to _imagine.”_

With that, he leans in and kisses him.

Yamaguchi can feel his hair bristle with static. Ripples of electricity shiver over his skin, gentle as it sparks along his nerves – his mouth tastes like butter, like daffodils, like lemons and harp music – it’s overwhelming, just this, but in the best kind of way. His breath catches in his throat, and almost on instinct, he reaches up, curling fingers into the front of Tsukishima’s shirt.

He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t entertained the thought of this before – so he melts into it, naturally, into the rustle of waving wheat and a summer breeze.

The angel’s lips are warm, like the rest of him, pressed up against Yamaguchi’s front – when he slides his fingers into his hair, tilting his head to kiss him sweet and deep, Yamaguchi feels another wave of static roll through him.

It’s easy. Tsukishima kisses like a lover, like the human he appeared to be, with faint huffs of breath and flashes of tongue – sparks of gold bounce down Yamaguchi’s spine, rattling around his chest, echoing alongside his pounding heart. He’d wanted this, more than he’d known, more than he’d ever dreamed – but with Tsukishima sighing against his mouth, his affections had been all too quick to surface.

Somewhere between lacing his fingers together behind the angel’s neck and inhaling sharply when Tsukishima’s grip tightens, he makes a mental note to thank Hinata for sparking that particular revelation.

Tsukishima kisses him again, again, and he tastes like buttercups, like honey, like the sun.

* * *

 

**[ KUROO, RANK V GUARDIAN ]**

“Oh, no.” Kuroo groans, and buries his face in his hands.

\- x -

In the entirety of his existence, Kuroo’s sure he’s never felt this strongly.

Granted, he’d always been one of the angels to remain in star-sleep for aeons, but on the few occasions he’d been stationed on Earth, he’d never felt anything to this degree. Human glamours weakened the mind, he knew they did, but even with that knowledge it was difficult for him to remain calm when panic and guilt rooted him to the spot.

So, he’d fled, abandoning his post and risking Oikawa’s wrath.

Even the distance had done nothing to soothe his nerves – frazzled, he’d ended up somewhere in Germany, making his way towards the most prominent source of _cosmos_ he could sence.

He’d been in luck: he’d stumbled upon another Guardian, one of the older ones, high-ranked and patient. He’d welcomed Kuroo’s presence with nothing but a kind, knowing smile, the promise of wisdom and good advice behind it.

It hadn’t taken much for Kuroo to spill – not the entire plan, he didn’t want Oikawa hunting him down – his concerns and doubts, and the depth of his guilt when it came down to it. The other Guardian had just watched him, nodding occasionally. The sympathy there had been enough to calm Kuroo’s nerves somewhat, but even so, the mere scope of his emotions kept him on edge.

“It sounds like Tsukishima is sick.” The other angel offers, mouth curving into a gentle smile. Kuroo stares at him, idly noting the white star-sheen in his hair, the imprint of Polaris next to his left eye – “Maybe he needs your help.”

“He’s too stubborn.” Kuroo says sourly, chin planted in his palms. Heaving a sigh, he watches the people below walk by, the sun warming the roof tiles underneath him. “He knows he’s in trouble – but he won’t do anything about it, you know? Besides,” he adds, “we don’t get sick.”

“Sure we do.” The angel replies. “From what you’ve told me, it sounds like withdrawal – he probably still has _cosmos_ , but the strain of keeping himself Earth-bound is probably weighing him down.” He snaps his fingers. “He’s tired, Kuroo. He needs star-sleep.”

Kuroo grunts.

All angels needed star-sleep – it was the primary method of regaining _cosmos_. There were other ways, of course, but they were inefficient and time-consuming in comparison. It went without saying that Tsukishima needed it, but from what the other angel was saying, it seemed to be for a different reason.

“Star-sleep isn’t just for replenishing _cosmos_ , you know.” The angel hums, drawing Kuroo’s attention. “We get homesick. Earth isn’t good for us, you know.” He laughs. “It makes us foggy. That’s why we go back to Heaven and take breaks. Even us – Guardians – shouldn’t really stay for too long, and we were meant to live among humans.”

Kuroo blinks, idly scratching his cheek. He’d assumed the only reason they needed star-sleep was for _cosmos_ , but… this Guardian was ranked X. He knew better.

“We all react differently to being on Earth.” The angel continues softly. “It sounds like Tsukishima’s acclimated better than the rest of us here. That’s likely why he’s still up and running with so little _cosmos_.” His brow furrows in thought. “Still… he’s weak. It’s amazing how long he’s been here for, but… it’s not good for him.”

“I know.” Kuroo says, rubbing at his eyes. “You try telling him that, though. See how well it goes.”

The other Guardian blinks at him, before laughing, soft and clear.

“It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” he says dreamily, gaze drifting off once more. “Being here makes us weak, in every sense of the word, but…” A thoughtful silence settles between them, a soft breeze gently stirring, the sound of voices below suddenly much louder.

“It makes some things stronger, too, doesn’t it?” The angel finally finishes his thought. “Ah—we all complain about emotion, but—isn’t it interesting? Being with humans makes us more like them.”

Kuroo watches a dog run down the cobbled road below them, two laughing children in tow. Vaguely, he thinks he feels something in his chest – affection, maybe, or annoyance – who knows? It wasn’t as if he experienced such things on a frequent basis. As it was, the only emotions that’d seemed to plague him were guilt and discomfort.

“We’re not supposed to be like them.” Kuroo points out, arms folding over his chest. The other angel hums in response.

“I know.” He answers simply. “That’s why I said it was interesting, not good.” Another pause. The older angels were fond of cryptic silences, it seemed. “But even so…” Kuroo watches him chew his lip thoughtfully. “Maybe Tsukishima doesn’t have it so bad, you know? Emotions make us weak, but they’re wonderful, aren’t they? He must feel things so fully. Imagine what that must be like.”

Kuroo didn’t want to imagine. The barest stirrings of things he felt were overwhelming – he couldn’t even fathom the full things Tsukishima was likely feeling. It sounded painful.

But even so, it was like the other Guardian had said: emotions were such a strange, unfamiliar thing – maybe Tsukishima reveled in that otherness. Maybe he enjoyed the intensity of it. Emotions were one of the things that set humans and angels apart – did he want to be human?

Kuroo’s head begins to throb.

“Even if he wants to feel like that,” he begins, slow and thoughtful, “he’s still suffering. You don’t—you haven’t—I mean, you’ve heard what I’ve told you, but he’s so much worse in person. He’s like a zombie.” Kuroo laughs, but the sound is more frustrated than anything.

“It does sound like it.” The other angel replies distantly. “We all need star-sleep. Even seraphs.” Kuroo shoots him a look, surprised—he didn’t know that. Seraphs were supposedly all-powerful – knowing that they needed the same sort of rest every other angel needed made them seem less threatening, somehow.

“But, Kuroo…” the other angel turns his gaze on him, smile kind and soft. “You’re feeling something too, aren’t you? You’re worried, it sounds like. That’s an emotion. Do you think you need star-sleep?”

Kuroo frowns. He was uncomfortable with the scope of his emotion, true—but his _cosmos_ was still plentiful, glowing bright in the amber of his core. It was likely he wouldn’t need star-sleep for a while, but – his newfound feelings of guilt were enough to make him want to retreat back to Heaven.

“I think,” the other angel slowly stands, brushing himself off, “that we’re meant to feel a little emotion. Why else would we be able to stay down here for so long? It’s only natural that we should grow close to our Shielded – we can protect them better if we can understand them, right?” He smiles delicately as Kuroo rises, as well.

Kuroo eyes him uneasily. Even if that were true – which it may as well be, he doesn’t know – the fact remained that Tsukishima was in trouble.

“But.” The Guardian’s voice is suddenly serious, eyes darkening. “We all have our limits. Tsukishima needs to go home.” His expression turns to one of pity. “Help him the best you can, Kuroo.”

With a gentle touch to Kuroo’s shoulder, he offers a smile, before disappearing in a puff of white flakes.

Kuroo stares at the empty space he leaves, before groaning again and dragging his hands down his face. He doesn’t want to be responsible for Tsukishima – he’s supposed to guard humans, not other angels – but the emotions tumbling around inside of him and the knowledge of the present danger keep him on his path.

Deep inside of him, between _cosmos_ and Glow, guilt and discomfort burn bright, shining with the same intensity of the star he’d left behind, miles and miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw finals week..................
> 
> take this off my hands
> 
> as always i am SO SO SO grateful for all your wonderful comments holy cow what did i do to deserve all you lovely people   
> sorry i dont respond directly to comments but please know that i read everything you say and honestly it keeps me going, my friends
> 
> thanks again as always!! til next time


	8. SUNGLOW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home and forever are big words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating change for this chapter
> 
> thanks for being patient!

Mid-July heralded the arrival of a fresh wave of heat.

It was near-unbearable – Yamaguchi’s apartment building unfortunately lacked any sort of adequate central AC, so in turn, he’d had to make do with a tiny window AC that worked with a rattling sound uncannily akin to that of a jackhammer. It was considerably better than nothing, however: after installing the noisy monstrosity in his bedroom, he’d declared the rest of the apartment inhabitable and retreated to his cool haven.

Humidity lay in thick blankets over everything the cold air couldn’t reach, so Yamaguchi’s only option had been to hole himself up in his room, where he wouldn’t sweat to death.

Living in his bedroom wasn’t as lonely as one would assume, however. For one, he’d started answering his phone again, which meant an influx of texts and calls from friends and family alike.

Secondly, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Tsukishima’s reappearance meant several things: it meant familiarity and comfort – but most importantly, it meant peace.

Since the angel’s return, Yamaguchi’s nightmares had all but stopped. The nights spent in his own bed were no longer fitful, punctuated by flashes of terror; but instead quiet and undisturbed.

With sleep came the slow, steady reconstruction of his daily routine. It’d taken a few days, but eventually the circles under Yamaguchi’s eyes had faded, leaving behind newly-rested energy in their wake. As quickly as he’d allowed himself to fall into despair, Tsukishima had pulled him right back out. The world seemed much brighter after nights of peaceful sleep.

However, even though Yamaguchi’s exhaustion had evidently faded, Tsukishima could hardly claim the same.

Now that he spent seemingly every waking moment with Yamaguchi, the things that’d been plaguing him for weeks were now all too obvious to ignore. The face he now woke up next to every morning was haggard, lined with unspoken burdens.

The frequency of Yamaguchi’s nightmares had only decreased after the angel had made visible efforts to dispel them. They were stubborn things, intent on pursuing him through the night, and without Tsukishima’s presence it was likely that he would’ve fallen prey to them once more.

It was only with physical touch that the terror would drain from him – the brush of Tsukishima’s lips against his temple, the warm weight of his palm against his forehead, the protective circle of his arms as he drifted off to sleep – these were the things that eased him back into a realm of peace.

More often than not, he’d wake up with Tsukishima still next to him, in the same position he’d been when Yamaguchi had fallen asleep. Sometimes it was strange – once, the angel had stood motionless next to his bed for nine-odd hours – but for the most part, it was entirely sweet, and in turn, more than enough to make Yamaguchi’s face burn with embarrassment.

On more than one occasion, he’d woken up with his hand still clasped in the angel’s, fingers laced together – on several others, he’d blinked open his eyes to find Tsukishima staring right at him, face just scant inches away – the angel claimed he didn’t need to sleep, but for all of his excuses, Yamaguchi woke with the angel dozing off next to him all too often.

It wasn’t real sleep; that he knew, but sometimes he’d catch Tsukishima with his eyes closed and chest rising and falling in slow, steady movements – it never lasted for very long, however, as Tsukishima would stir the moment Yamaguchi did.

Being so close to the gold eyes that’d transfixed him for so long was enough to make his heart pound – being so close to Tsukishima, period, was enough – and he often found himself staring at the angel’s face, shameless in his careful examination of every feature.

Tsukishima had turned out to be shameless, in return – and an opportunist, at that.

Yamaguchi’s slow ascent from peaceful sleep and back to wakefulness had started to include a gentle, purposeful kiss. Sometimes it would be the kiss that woke him, something quietly affectionate in lieu of a good morning – nothing could compare to the first time Tsukishima had kissed him, but the times he’d woken to the gesture, still soft and pliant with sleep, could absolutely come close.

Kissing the angel was like kissing something carbonated. He was fizzy and sparking against Yamaguchi’s lips, gentle ripples of static leaving warmth and sweetness in their wake. It was just like kissing anyone else, but at the same time infinitely different – Tsukishima never failed to whisk his breath away, leaving him warm and aching on the inside.

And, well, one kiss often led to another, which led to a whole lot of time wasted in the mornings.

Yamaguchi wouldn’t describe it as time _wasted_ , however – in those moments, there was nothing else he’d rather be doing, which made it an entirely productive activity.

Despite the frequency of it all, Tsukishima remained stiff and careful, eyes hesitant even with the gentleness in his touch.

At first, Yamaguchi had thought him to be overly cautious, as if his touch would break him – which had been mildly off-putting at first; he wasn’t something delicate, after all – and whenever the angel’s hands hesitated, it only served to further the mystery.

Perhaps it was respect: that much he could understand, appreciate even, but that wasn’t quite the vibe he was getting. The stumbling kisses, the hands-above-the-waist prom-date hesitance – they all signified something different, and despite Tsukishima’s tendency to initiate, he was slow to follow through.

Which was frustrating, to say the least. Yamaguchi had needs – _kissing_ needs, damn it – and the angel’s fleeting PG-13 butterfly kisses weren’t enough.

Still, he wasn’t one to push boundaries – he knew how important they were, of all things – after all, Tsukishima’s comfort was much more important than anything Yamaguchi could ever want from him.

It didn’t stop him from wanting.

It’d taken some coaxing – careful, respectful – to get Tsukishima to open up even a little bit. It was a strange kind of affair. Yamaguchi was all too aware of the fact that the angel was just that: an _angel_ , which was a concept he still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around.

Did Tsukishima have needs? Did he truly feel something other than indifference? Was he driven by something akin to _love?_

That had been a particularly alarming thought, and Yamaguchi had brushed it aside nervously. He’d already taken this initial plunge – there was no need to overthink things like that right away. It could come later.

So, he’d just pretended that Tsukishima was like anyone else, and not a cloud of roaring stardust wrapped up tight in a shawl of human skin.

That part was easy – he’d already started to seem more human, after all. He almost matched Yamaguchi in terms of pallor, now, dim but still alive, eyes flat and soft with rippling gold patterns. With that kept in mind, it was all too simple to keep pretending that Tsukishima was human; which was what he’d wanted, but at the same time, it’d been something he dreaded.

It was considerably more calming to see the angel puttering around the apartment as opposed to blipping in and out of existence like some sort of ghost. His company was easier now that he was actually _there_ , in person, sitting amiable next to Yamaguchi atop his bed.

It’d been an unusually cool day when Tsukishima had fallen asleep.

With the window cracked open, the living room had become bearable once more. After tentatively emerging from his bedroom, Yamaguchi had stationed himself right back on his couch, the angel right by his side.

The TV provided soft noise in the background, as it always did, comforting in the company it provided. Tsukishima had been warm against his side, bearable in the mild heat, thigh pressed comfortably against his.

Yamaguchi hadn’t even noticed the angel dozing off until his head had dropped onto his shoulder.

He looks up with a start, book forgotten as he angles an awkward gaze down to where Tsukishima’d slumped against him.

“Hey,” Yamaguchi says, a little unsure. “Tsuki—Tsukishima, are you—are you asleep?” He nudges the angel with his shoulder, mindful of the weight of his head. When there’s no response, he frowns, shifting carefully as to get a better look at his face.

There’s no response from him – not a twitch, not a flicker of light; just steady, even breaths. The sight of Tsukishima’s chest slowly rising and falling is the only thing that keeps him from panicking.

The breathing could mean anything, really. Yamaguchi’s not really sure how the whole ‘ _human costume’_ thing works, so, for all he knows, Tsukishima’s body could be nothing but an empty shell.

“Hey,” he says again, louder. He nudges the angel again, a little more forceful, huffing out a quiet, worried breath at the responding silence. _“Tsukishima.”_

Yamaguchi pushes at his shoulder with his free hand, noting his unresponsiveness with alarm. Again, he shoves his arm, hollowly expecting something more than silence – when nothing but heavy quiet answers him, he wriggles free of Tsukishima’s oppressive weight and into a standing position.

Forcing himself to keep his breath steady – Tsukishima was just asleep, after all, panicking wouldn’t be good for either of them – he leans down, gripping the angel’s shoulders with nervous hands.

“Hey. _Hey._ Can you hear me?” he punctuates the demand with a firm shake.

Tsukishima, predictably, does not respond.

Yamaguchi shakes him by the shoulders once more, the fabric of the angel’s shirt strangely cool under his palms, before giving up. With a sigh, he straightens up, eyeing Tsukishima with a combination of worry and wariness.

What could he do? As far as he knew, rousing Tsukishima from his supposed sleep was impossible – but he couldn’t just let him _stay_ that way, passed out as he was on Yamaguchi’s couch like some sort of strange, parodied Sleeping Beauty.

(Briefly, Yamaguchi entertains the thought of kissing him, but decides all too quickly that he’s not entirely comfortable with the idea of kissing an unconscious person. It seemed intrusive. He could wait until the angel was awake once more.)

Panic begins to rise metallic in his throat, thick and choking, and he swallows hard, blinking sudden stars out of his eyes. Yamaguchi, for all his curiosity and resulting inquiries, knew next to nothing about what Tsukishima actually _was_ , or how he _worked_ , or –

— in effect, he was useless. There was nothing he could do.

With a long exhale, he sits on the edge of the couch, tearing his gaze away from Tsukishima’s limp form. Anxiety worms its way through his body, familiar in its chill rawness, before he utters a frustrated laugh in an attempt to dispel it.

Had he really come all this way just to be thwarted by something like this? He’d only just gotten to come back to some semblance of normality – though, he thinks, he should know better by now: normality was something he was seemingly barred from.

“I don’t know,” he begins, lamenting to the empty room, “what to do, anymore.”

Almost immediately, the TV erupts with static.

Yamaguchi starts, incredulous gaze flashing over to the flickering screen. For a moment, the air grows warm, buzzing with something soft and dark, before relaxing back into the monotonous buzz winding from the television’s speakers.

He stares at the screen, body frozen with hesitant surprise. Black and white flickers meld into a grey-pixelated shift, rippling and sparking with the pops of electricity provided by the power cords plugged into the TV.

“You called?” The TV says cheerily. Yamaguchi jumps again, hands flying down to the couch cushions for support.

The voice is intimately familiar – it takes him a moment to place it, mind racing with momentary confusion, but the winding mahogany sound laying chocolate on his tongue is enough to bring not-too-distant memories to the forefront of his mind.

Oikawa’s voice strikes some chord deep in him, echoing resentment and fear through his chest – he remembers all too clearly the archangel’s hands rifling through his core like drawers, memories shifting under the angel’s touch.

“Um,” Yamaguchi says hesitantly, “No, not – not really? – why are you… here?” he stares at the TV screen uncertainly, unsure of how to address the archangel’s presence.

“To answer your prayers, of course.” Oikawa’s voice crackles briefly, fading behind a ribbon of electricity, before it evens back out to its familiar velvet. “You sounded like you needed some divine assistance.”

For a moment, Yamaguchi remains quiet, watching the steadily flickering TV screen. The last thing he wanted was to throw a wild card into his already-strange life, but – as it always seemed to be, he had no other option.

 _Damn_ these angels. How did they always know just how to mess with him?

“Well?” The archangel’s voice rings testily, tinny where it leaks from the speakers. “I’m waiting.”

“Oh.” Yamaguchi blinks, unconsciously straightening up. “Yeah, I guess—“ he casts a look over at where Tsukishima rests peacefully against the couch, “I guess so.”

Reaching up, he scratches his cheek, looking for words. From the little information he’d managed to gather through experience, angels seemed to react to each other the same way adult cats did – violently. Unhappily. As territorial, cranky animals.

“Tsukishima won’t wake up.” He blurts. The TV offers a hiss of static in response. “He’s, uh – asleep? Maybe?” he continues weakly, “I don’t know, but, um – I don’t think he’s supposed to, you know. Do that.”

Oikawa laughs, genuinely amused. A brief tongue of color licks through the smears of black-and-white static. Yamaguchi can feel himself flush, cheeks growing hot with equal parts irritation and concern.

“Angels need rest too, you know.” The archangel says, finally deigning to address Yamaguchi’s concerns. “He’s probably just taking a nap. It’s _so_ sweet that you’re worried about him, though. I’m sure he appreciates it.”

The vague smug peppiness that laves Oikawa’s voice is enough to make Yamaguchi’s hackles rise, protests lining up on his tongue as he opens his mouth to retort.

“Don’t worry.” The archangel soothes, interrupting his train of thought. “He’ll wake up soon. Just let him sleep.” The static on the TV fades to something gentle.

There’s a pause, then. Yamaguchi stares at the screen once more, searching for some hint of – anything, anything that would betray the angel’s presence besides the bright crackle of his distant voice.

“But, ah…” Oikawa says, voice low with a sudden seriousness. “Be careful, okay? Tired angels make for cranky angels.” There’s a short hum of sound as he laughs again, and the static jumps on the screen, hissing through Yamaguchi’s ears.

“Goodbye!”

A blinding flash of light follows the archangel’s sudden farewell, and Yamaguchi instinctively squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the bright imprints behind his eyelids to fade before he opens them once more.

A faint tendril of smoke curls through the air, leaking out of the television. Yamaguchi stares at it in horror, disbelief replacing any other thought in his head – what was with angels and their tendency to destroy things in their wake? _Yamaguchi’s_ things, specifically?

He runs a hand through his hair, restless in his sudden confusion. Had the archangel been spying on him? Waiting? Had he left some sort of cosmic tracking chip in his chest, or something?

Immediately, Yamaguchi reaches up, hands pressing to his chest, before he realizes that there’s… probably no way he could reach inside himself to check.

He’d ask Tsukishima later.

With that thought, he slowly looks back over to the angel. He’s still resting in the same place, undisturbed, expression slack and devoid of all emotion.

Maybe it’s good for him, Yamaguchi thinks, watching the faint shift of his shoulders as he breathes. Rest had seemed to be something Tsukishima had desperately needed for some time now, but—seeing him like this seemed wrong, somehow.

Yamaguchi shifts closer to him, eyes trained on his face. It’s vulnerable this way, with no sarcastic expression to fortify it, and Yamaguchi feels – protective, somehow. His heart stutters against his ribs, anxious in its own way. With everything sort of finally, finally settling down, this kind of worry, unfounded or not, was the last thing he wanted.

So, he lets it go – slowly, in increments, letting himself focus on nothing but the slow sound of Tsukishima’s sleep.

With a careful hand, he reaches out, fingertips brushing against the angel’s cheek. It’s warm – despite everything, he’s still warm, the embers of his being still burning under his skin.

In his sleep, Tsukishima sighs, shifting under Yamaguchi’s touch.

* * *

 

**[ TSUKISHIMA, ??? ]**

The resounding squeak of sneakers against the gym floor is almost enough to make Tsukishima wince.

He’s all too aware of Yamaguchi’s none-too-subtle side glances, however, so he keeps his expression as placid and unreadable as can be. It’s only fair, anyways: when he’d woken from his impromptu nap not even a week ago, the force of Yamaguchi’s worry had hit him like a UPS truck – and that, he could hardly bear, so he’d done his best to keep his behavior as normal as possible.

Normal, however, had become some sort of in-between goal: what he considered normal Yamaguchi would not, and vice versa, making every step Tsukishima took a cautious one.

Still, he’d settled back into routine as neatly as he could, diverting Yamaguchi’s concern aside with his own. Summer beckoned them both outside – Tsukishima more, perhaps: the sun shone with his _cosmos_ , the shell of some long-gone angel still peacefully offering its light to the Earth below.

The sunlight almost made him feel alive once more. Its warmth soaked into the core of him, hollow and chill as it was, feeding a soft light into the guttering flame that kept him alive.

It wasn’t what he needed, but it was something.

He feels the light bounce around inside his skull, kaleidoscopic patterns of yellow and white flashing in between the raised voices bouncing off the gym walls. It’s too much to focus on at once, really, but for Yamaguchi’s sake, he says nothing.

Tsukishima can feel a slow excitement ebb from Yamaguchi in silver waves, yearning flickering grey through its depths. It’s enough for him to focus on, even with his inability to truly see what thoughts create the echo: without his glasses, his senses remained frustratingly limited.

As a volleyball arcs through the air, the silver flashes a brief white. That alone is enough to hint at his thoughts.

“Do you want to move closer?” Tsukishima says, gesturing to the bottom row of the bleachers, where half-filled waterbottles and discarded jackets litter the seats. Yamaguchi shakes his head silently, teeth worrying his bottom lip as he watches the game in front of them.

It’s a practice game, this time – they’d not had a home game so far, making this the closest thing to an actual competition he’d seen – but even so, Yamaguchi’s transfixed, expression flickering between awe and something unreadable.

Tsukishima doesn’t see the appeal.

It’s a ball. That’s it – a ball tossed back and forth over a net. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing remotely exciting about it; even with his extended time roaming across Earth’s surface, the apparent appeal that sports had was still unclear.

“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to do it?” he tries again, nudging Yamaguchi’s arm with an elbow. The only answer he gets is a faint noise of annoyance and a responding nudge. “Tadashi?”

At the sound of his name, Yamaguchi turns his head, eyes still distant with thought. The silver around his head wobbles, dipping with some embarrassed affection – even with his preoccupation, Tsukishima can see the emotions that swim around his head like fish. He could still sense that, at least.

“I’m gonna do it.” He answers slowly, lifting a hand to scratch his cheek. “I just – haven’t gotten around to it yet, you know?”

The excuse sends another ripple through the gentle halo around his head, scattering white through its rings. Tsukishima knows he’s lying – a fib, really, but still a lie – and he lofts a brow in response, doubt stamping itself across his features.

“Why don’t you do it now?” Tsukishima tilts his head, voice flat with a stubborn insistence. Yamaguchi puffs up in response, brow creasing as he searches the angel’s expression. For a moment, he looks ready to protest, before finally deflating with a sigh of defeat.

He’d never push Yamaguchi into something he truly didn’t want – but the angel knew exactly what he wanted, whether he was aware of it or not. That was part of his job, after all. The shimmering threads that connected Yamaguchi’s thoughts stretched out beyond his sight, shifting with every move he made, connecting him invisibly to everything he’d ever attached himself to.

Tsukishima was, of course, all too aware of the gradually strengthening silver cord that Yamaguchi had unwittingly strung between them. He’d taken care not to mention it, however: the visible bonds that humans shared were something that was to be kept a secret. Should Yamaguchi become too aware of his spatial presence, then he’d likely overload his own senses and blow some sort of fuse – and that was something Tsukishima wanted to avoid, for the most part.

“Fine.” Yamaguchi says, sulkily. Tsukishima blinks his own thoughts away, eyes refocusing through empty space and back onto his face. Before he can offer a response, Yamaguchi stands, making a face at him before picking his way down the rows of bleachers.

Tsukishima watches him go with some measure of amusement – for all the stock he’d placed in Yamaguchi, for as long as he’d known him, he was still glaringly, obviously human, holding himself back from the things he wanted most with the excuse of fear.

Fear was powerful, of course, but like all things, it could be overcome.

Yamaguchi pauses at the bottom of the steps, his silver slowly smoothing over with worry. As the seconds tick by, Tsukishima’s almost tempted to go join him – but then there’s the sound of a whistle, and he relaxes back into his seat.

Pointedly, he lets himself sink back into his glamour, blurring out the sight and sound of Yamaguchi striking up a conversation with someone citrus-orange. Even though Yamaguchi was likely unaware of his eavesdropping abilities, he could still be courteous and allow him some modicum of well-deserved privacy.

The sounds of voices make their way to him slowly, muffled as if spoken underwater – he’s tempted to close his eyes and retreat completely into his core, but, well… Yamaguchi hadn’t reacted very well to that the first time around. Sleeping was apparently enough to call for alarm.

Distant stardust clouds over his vision, a familiar hum of cosmic noise thrumming through his ears. Even though he’d all but cut contact with Heaven and all his kin, the far-off noise of their collective voices still made its way to him. It was calming in a way, soothing, keeping him tethered to the reality of his existence.

Luckily, he can’t make out anything in particular, but the mere presence of the sounds are enough to set him at ease.

Even with what he could hear, however, Tsukishima remained near-blind, completely unaware of anything save for what was right before his eyes. It was human sight, he knew, all of his consciousness limited to the nerves that made up his glamour’s eyes – but humans, compared to everything else, were practically blind as it were, so what they saw of him, he saw of them, as well.

Yamaguchi’s voice sounds again, high and clear, cutting through the fog keeping him suspended inside his skin. With a faint sigh, he lets it dissipate, expanding within himself once more.

Blinking several times, he feels his hearing snap back to something clear, and Yamaguchi’s words reach him once more.

“Were you sleeping?” he asks incredulously, standing stock still in front of Tsukishima. The angel squints up at him, processing the question before making a vague noise.

“No.” Tsukishima answers plainly, ignoring Yamaguchi’s concerned expression as he shifts to sit next to him once more. “Just zoned out. What did you and—that person talk about?”

Yamaguchi’s expression turns thoughtful, fingertips inadvertently tapping against his thigh. Tsukishima can see his silver change once again, spinning in anxious orbits around his temples – despite his evident nerves, however, there’s a pleased undercurrent to it all, bright and glowing.

“I said,” he begins carefully, staring very interestedly at a penny on the ground, “that I’d try it out. Maybe.” The words come slow, as if pulled grudgingly from their home – but, the shy happiness is still there. Tsukishima decides not to point it out.

“Good.” The angel responds simply. “I’m glad.” When Yamaguchi shoots him a sideways look, he turns to meet his eyes, a vague hint of a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. The human’s silver spins in rapid circles once more, sparkling dust flying from its edges, before he lets out a dramatic groan and slumps against Tsukishima’s side.

“Don’t embarrass me.” He mutters, head falling onto the angel’s shoulder. “I’m already enough of a joke.”

Tsukishima hums out a noise of disagreement, eyes flicking back to the gently swaying net strung out across the gym. Yamaguchi’s discomfort was palpable, sure, but it was soft – nothing immovable or dissoluble. He could move past it.

Almost without thinking, Tsukishima reaches for his hand.

It’s an entirely human gesture, he knows – but at this point, he may as well be entirely human, himself – but even so, he lets himself find Yamaguchi’s palm, his fingers, gently lacing them within his own. His heartbeat is almost visible under his skin, pumping soft silver through his mind, tracing glimmers along and between and just underneath his freckles.

“You’ll be glad you reached out.” Tsukishima says slowly, almost entirely focused on Yamaguchi’s skin beneath his fingertips – he’s warm, warmer than Tsukishima, almost – as he speaks, thumb rubbing just over the ridge of his knuckles. “Life is short.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy with some darker meaning. Tsukishima feels the first pangs of regret set in – that was something he shouldn’t have said, probably – as Yamaguchi turns a slow gaze on him, cautious and hesitant.

“That’s kind of a dark thought.” He murmurs, idly rubbing at his knee. “But… I guess you have a point.” For a moment, he searches Tsukishima’s face, as if looking for something – an explanation, maybe, or some sort of answer to an unasked question – before looking away, down at the court below.

His silver shifts uncertainly, steady orbit gradually coming to a halt. Tsukishima squints at it, noting its almost imperceptible ripples – and then, with a near-silent breath of wind, it rustles back into motion.

Tsukishima had already noticed his hesitation, however. Yamaguchi’s Glow gave away his misgivings even where his face betrayed nothing. His façade was impressive, it really was, but his sudden roiling emotions were obvious to Tsukishima. He couldn’t see his exact thoughts, frustratingly, but Yamaguchi’s discomfort with clear – evidently, he wasn’t fond of being reminded of his mortality. But then again, who would be?

“A thought for another time, then.” Tsukishima says, blinking. Yamaguchi stares at him for another moment before shrugging, unsure smile curving his mouth upwards.

“I suppose.” He answers quietly.

And that’s that. Tsukishima watches the halo of silver around his head pulse gently, glimmering with life and light. He’s sure Yamaguchi’s noticed him staring by now, but he can’t help himself – his Glow was the only one he could truly see in detail, now, and it was one he’d memorized well. The way it changed and flickered with all its unfathomable energy was breathtaking.

“Will I see you again?”

The question brings Tsukishima to a halt. He flicks his gaze back to meet Yamaguchi’s – it’s suddenly intense and questioning, something firm building behind it. His silver dips and pitches again – but comes back stronger this time, molding itself into solid rings.

He wants to say yes. He wants to say yes because it would mean a peace of mind for Yamaguchi, something to hold on to after Tsukishima’s inevitable ascent to Heaven – and he wants to say yes because it would mean promising happiness to himself. _Of course_ , he wants to say, _of course_.

With his cosmos fading fast, however, the only promise he can make to himself is one of aeons-long star-steep. After this… a return to Earth was not in his future.

“Yes,” Tsukishima says, “perhaps.”

Yamaguchi would never know it was a lie.

He feels his heart twitch as the human brightens, leaning comfortably against his side once more. To tell him the truth now would be to ruin something very new and very fragile – and now, with his time running out, Tsukishima couldn’t afford to break Yamaguchi’s heart. This was the last chance he had, after all.

So, he says nothing, heart heavier than the weight of Yamaguchi’s head on his shoulder, and watches the game below.

* * *

 

Since summer had settled into existence with its promise of sun and warmth, Yamaguchi had felt the earth flower to life around him. It was practically impossible to ignore how everything blossomed with a sudden energy, despite with what he’d labeled as intolerable heat.

Tsukishima was no exception, apparently. Summer made him shine once more, even if he was only reflecting the sun’s rays. This above all was the hardest to ignore – when he kissed him, Yamaguchi felt his heart swell with golden sunlight, all-too-familiar static making itself at home just under his skin.

Sometimes he wonders if the static had somehow turned to happiness along the way.

It was easy, living with Tsukishima. Kissing him. Like he’d been doing it his whole life. There’s no barrier between the angel and the word _home_ , now, as ridiculous as it felt to admit it to himself – to open his door and find the apartment empty would mean some sort of loss he didn’t want to contemplate.

How long would Tsukishima stay? Forever? It’s all too easy to remember he’s on the last of his chances – too easy to think of how one misstep could lead to the end of the kind of life he’d grown used to.

He entertains the word _forever_ along with _home_ , rolling them together in his mind until they meld into something achingly golden and familiar. It was too easy to forget the quickness of his attachment to the angel in favor of the thought of a life with him, long and sweet, filled with summer winds and ringing bells.

His future could be a happy one, if he was careful.

Yamaguchi’s thoughts are almost loud enough to drown out the shower, water pounding down onto the tiled floor beneath him. He squints at the rippling patterns streaming down the wall, sure that the sound of his own heart was loud enough for the entire apartment building to hear – his affections couldn’t be drowned, no matter how loud the water, and the _love_ on his face was something he’d likely never be able to hide.

 _Love_ and _never_ are also big words. Silently, he rolls them in with _foreverhome_ , feeling something warm glowing behind his ribs.

It should scare him more than it does. Love, that is. Even with the horrors he’d experienced under the angel’s care, for every time he’d stared into Death’s eyes and come back again, his own emotions should have been enough to trump them all.

For once, however, his own mind doesn’t betray him – there’s no problem there, there’s no issue or fear, just something simple, golden, and true.

Carefully, he reaches out, turning the shower dial off.

The water stops almost immediately, the hiss of droplets pattering down replaced now by the slow drip-drip of Yamaguchi’s sopping hair. He considers the empty space in front of him for a moment before stepping out, grabbing a towel from the rack on the wall.

July’s heat wave had subsided enough to make the rest of his apartment livable, so it’s with a measure of triumph that Yamaguchi dries himself off, puts on a fresh change of clothes, and makes his way out of the bathroom without having some sort of heat stroke.

Something about the air seems dreamlike, almost, soft and expectant as he pads down the hall. A distant hum threads through the air, quiet and almost inaudible – without thought, Yamaguchi immediately thinks of wheat fields, open sky and long fields.

Rounding the corner into the front room, he stops short, hesitating just next to the wall.

The sight in front of him is familiar; so much so that it almost takes his breath away in all its comfort and complete unremarkability.

His floral couch is predictably occupied by Tsukishima, whose lanky arms and legs sprawl over the rough fabric as if he belonged there. And perhaps he did, Yamaguchi thinks, maybe he did belong here – right here, in front of him, in his eyes, in his arms.

“Tsukishima,” he blurts, suddenly standing rod-straight. The angel looks up from where he’d been reading an old copy of _Brave New World_ , a brow automatically lofting with curiosity.

Yamaguchi takes all of him in in: the ever-present muss of his pale hair, the flash of golden eyes, the gentle glow that lived just under his skin – all of it here, promised to him for as long as he could treasure it for. And he _could_ treasure him – and he would. God, he would.

“I think.” He starts, then stops, mouth opening and closing. “I think I _love_ you.”

Tsukishima freezes, and for one horrible second, Yamaguchi thinks he’s said something he shouldn’t have.

“What?” the angel asks quietly, closing the book and setting it aside with a slow, careful movement. Yamaguchi swallows, slowly moving forward as if drawn by some invisible string. He can feel his heart loud in his ears again, enough to make his head hurt with all its pounding – but that’s nothing, almost, easy to ignore with Tsukishima sitting dumbfounded in front of him.

“I,” he begins again, quiet but steadier, somehow, “think — I love you.” His legs bump against the arm of the sofa, and he stops short, blinking down at the silent angel.

The quiet that falls is different somehow than every time it’d fallen before – there’s virtually nothing to punctuate it, except Yamaguchi’s own pulse. Tsukishima’s expression falls somewhere between shock and disbelief, flickering between the two and nowhere else – Yamaguchi swallows hard, eyes flitting over his face.

There’s an uncertainty there he can’t quite place. It seems uncharacteristic for the angel to have no response, and without thinking, Yamaguchi furrows his brow – but then, something clicks into place.

Fear. Fear? Was that it? Was Tsukishima afraid? All those times he’d kissed him with agonizing hesitation, all the unsure looks he’d cast him out of the corner of his eye – and now, frozen like a deer in headlights, it’s all too easy for Yamaguchi to come to the conclusion that the angel was, in fact, afraid.

“Are you sure?” Tsukishima says numbly, fingers unconsciously flexing by his side. Yamaguchi hesitates for a breath before nodding. The angel exhales, long and slow – and just watching him like this, strangely vulnerable under Yamaguchi’s scrutiny, is enough to make him want to be closer.

“Yeah.” Yamaguchi nods automatically, taking another step close – Tsukishima watches him like a cornered animal, eyes wide and bright as he shifts down, one knee on the couch, and then the other, perched precariously atop his legs.

With bravery drawn from some deep wellspring, Yamaguchi leans in close – he can feel how tense the angel is between his knees, nearly stonelike against the soft, worn cushions, and it makes him ache fierce, deep.

“Yeah.” He says again, soft, burning face just inches from Tsukishima’s. Gently, as if not to startle him, Yamaguchi reaches down for his hands, taking them in his own. The tension’s unbearable, almost thick enough to taste – Yamaguchi nods for emphasis, feeling the angel’s pulse flutter under his fingers. “I’m—I’m sure. I love you.” A self-deprecating laugh, “I guess, maybe – does it make sense? I don’t know.” He grips Tsukishima’s hands tightly. “I don’t know. But I love you. I know that.”

Tsukishima doesn’t wait, that time – with another hard breath, he surges upwards and kisses him.

He’s _electric_ , as always, mouth warm and open against Yamaguchi’s. This time, however, he pulls his hands free, resting firm palms at his hips to pull him closer – and closer he is, suddenly, solid between Yamaguchi’s thighs and against his front.

The combination of static and tongue and familiar hands finding their way under his shirt and up his sides, discovering the dip of his spine, tugging him flush against the angel and close, close, is enough to take his breath away. Tsukishima is _real_ this way – he’s present, human, all heartbeat and smooth skin underneath him.

Yamaguchi reaches out, fingers curling in the angel’s hair, tugging at short locks as his breath hitches in his throat. Tsukishima’s hands slide up his spine, recording every shiver Yamaguchi offers, kissing the side of his mouth and then his chin, then his jaw, then down the side of his throat.

He lets out a choked noise, grip tightening in the angel’s hair as he sucks a soft bruise into his skin – _want_ hits him then in a pang of heat, then, enough to make his heart stutter, and he settles down against Tsukishima, weight firm and insistent.

“You have,” he hears the angel say against his skin, raw and quiet, “—no idea—Tadashi, you can’t even _imagine_ —“ His hands slide to his hips once more, the pads of his thumbs rough and slow where they drag over the jut of bone.

For a moment, he rests like that, Yamaguchi tense on top of him with his hands on his hips and his mouth open against his throat – and it feels _right_ , Yamaguchi thinks with a pang, carding his fingers through Tsukishima’s hair with another muted shudder.

“Tsukishima.” He says, swallowing gently. “Kiss me again.”

And he does, immediately shifting upwards to kiss him fervently, desperately, hips moving up against him in a subconscious gesture – and Yamaguchi groans low in the back of his throat, the noise muffled by the angel’s mouth as he automatically grinds back down against him.

Tsukishima’s hands are everywhere: in his hair, rubbing down his spine, against his sides, grabbing his hips. He rocks up against him again, uninhibited, teeth dragging against his bottom lip before he’s grabbing the hem of Yamaguchi’s shirt and shifting it up, pulling it over his head and off in one fluid motion.

Yamaguchi’s almost dizzy with how hot he is, heat prickling his skin, breath coming fast as he watches the angel kiss the base of his throat, then down and over his chest, lips brushing against the freckles spattered unevenly over his skin.

“Is that all I had to do?” he finds his voice, offering a breathless laugh, “Tell you I love you to get you to do more than kiss me?”

“Didn’t want to push you.” Comes the muttered answer. Before Yamaguchi can offer a retort, his lips brush against a sensitive spot, and he squirms.

“Ticklish,” he gasps. Tsukishima meets his eye, lifting a brow before kissing the same dip of skin again, again, sensation rippling out and over Yamaguchi’s body. “Hey!” he protests, though there’s no fire to it – at another kiss, he bites back a breathy noise, gently batting the back of the angel’s head. “Don’t—hey, don’t—I’m trying to be _passionate,_ here, don’t _tickle_ me—“

Tsukishima slowly shifts back up, eyes dark with intent – and he kisses Yamaguchi again, slow this time, burning a slow lit of desire through his veins. Yamaguchi shivers, letting his hands smooth down the angel’s cheeks and throat, rubbing over the warm skin there.

“Do you want to?” Tsukishima murmurs against his mouth. Yamaguchi doesn’t have to ask what he means - with a noise of affirmation, he settles against him, comfortable and solid in his lap.

The angel kisses him again, once, twice, before pulling back, bare features refocusing on Yamaguchi. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of quickened breathing, something akin to awe flickering in Tsukishima’s eyes as he gently slides a palm down Yamaguchi’s thigh.

“How did you—how do you want—?“ He begins, cutting himself off with hesitance. It’s endearing, almost – for all his bravado, Tsukishima’s voice gave away his shyness. He was centuries old and still _shy_ , awkward with his hands, uncertainty clouding his features.

“Hm,” Yamaguchi makes a thoughtful noise, rubbing a thumb over the angel’s cheek, “well—for all I know, so much as getting a cut could let out all the stardust inside of you, so…” he continues dryly, ignoring Tsukishima’s bit-off noise of amusement, “no offense, Tsu _kki_ , but… maybe we should do it—just like this.” Teeth digging into his bottom lip, he grinds down against him, slow and dirty and _fuck_ the face Tsukishima makes, lips parted, lashes lowered, makes him want to kiss him again, again, until he’s breathless with it.

“No offense taken.” The angel answers, voice rough as he pulls Yamaguchi’s hips down – and, God, he’s hard, Yamaguchi can feel it even through the layers of clothes, the firm outline of his dick pressing against his thigh – he hisses through his teeth, arms coming to loop around Tsukishima’s shoulders, gaze cast down to where their bodies meet, hips rocking steady down against him.

There’s heat pooling in every part of him, rasping with every breath he takes as he finds a rhythm, friction rough and hot against him, against his cock hard and still in his pants – he feels like he’s in high school again, rubbing off against his first boyfriend, but Tsukishima is warm and inviting and offering soft, delicious noises every time Yamaguchi moves down against him.

“I didn’t even know,” Yamaguchi says, almost surprised at the breathiness of his voice, “that angels could— _ah_ —get hard,” he teases, biting back a moan at a particularly rough motion. His thighs clench together around Tsukishima’s legs as the angel utters a quiet laugh, hips rolling up.

Yamaguchi’s hit with the urge to be closer, suddenly – as if he could get any closer than he already was, tangled in Tsukishima’s legs – and he kisses Tsukishima, greedy, hands falling from his shoulders.

“Can I?” he whispers, fingers finding the clasp of the angel’s jeans. At an almost imperceptible nod, he pops open the button, feeling Tsukishima’s stomach twitch as he pushes his hand down, under rough fabric – and then the angel’s cock is firm against his palm, hot where he wraps fingers around him, thumbing over where precum beads at the tip.

The angel makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a moan and an actual word, as Yamaguchi works him with an easy hand, stroking him smoothly, with firm movements.

 _“Tadashi,”_ he groans, head falling back – inadvertently, his hips press up into his touch – and Yamaguchi can’t help himself, not at the sound of his name spoken like that, so he leans down to catch Tsukishima’s mouth, chasing his voice. He almost doesn’t expect it when the angel kisses him hard, one hand fisting into his hair as he licks into his mouth, hips stuttering upwards.

He’d be more alarmed by how fast things were moving if he hadn’t wanted it so badly – besides, the way Tsukishima’s kind of just barely keeping himself from fucking Yamaguchi’s hand is hot as _hell_ and there’s _no way_ he was going to have second thoughts about it – that, and he kisses well enough to make Yamaguchi’s toes curl, soft noises building in his chest.

When the angel’s hand finds his hip again, he exhales hard, grip tightening around Tsukishima – and when he feels his hand slide just under the hem of his sweats, he sighs out a shuddery noise against the angel’s mouth, legs tensing – and when he takes him in hand, he outright groans, hips pressing forward into Tsukishima’s touch.

“Tsuki— _shima_ ,” he says, desperate and breathless, mouth just scant inches from the angel’s – he quickens his pace, jerking him with a now-unsteady rhythm, distracted by the feeling of Tsukishima’s hand around his cock.

There are no more words, after that. Yamaguchi can hear his own breathing, harsh in his head even as he takes the angel’s labored breaths into account – every touch, every stroke and motion makes something buzz in his head, heat simmering low in his stomach. Tsukishima’s dick is heavy and hot in his hand – he wants to _fuck_ him, now, now that he’d gotten this taste, but it was probably best to take it slow – and the pleasure that sparks at the ends of his nerves makes him ache in a way that tells him he won’t last long, as it is.

Yamaguchi bites his lip, ignoring the steadily growing soreness in his hand in favor of the glowing heat in his abdomen – he lets himself groan, inadvertently thrusting forward into the angel’s hand – and then Tsukishima’s breath catches, the steady movement of his arm stuttering – he makes a noise somewhere between warning and pleasure, uttering Yamaguchi’s name one last time in a breathy prayer – and then he comes, back arching up, white shooting sticky and warm over Yamaguchi’s fingers.

He watches, transfixed, as the angel shudders out his orgasm, eyes squeezing shut. For a moment, he almost forgets about his own erection, but then Tsukishima’s eyes shoot open once more, and he sits up straight from where he’d sunk down to a slouch.

Face-to-face with him, Tsukishima takes him into hand once more, stroking him with renewed vigor – and God, _God,_ it’s so sweet, just fast and firm enough to make Yamaguchi want to squirm. He doesn’t let up, as if he knows that he’s hit just the right speed, as if he’s savoring Yamaguchi’s every reaction – and by the looks of it, he is, golden eyes still soft, but intent on drinking up every bit-off noise and breath spilling from Yamaguchi’s lips.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says suddenly, voice distant with pleasure as heat winds up his spine, “oh—I’m close, Tsuki—Tsukishima—“ He can feel himself breathing hard, thighs clenching and unclenching as he tightens still-sticky fingers into a fist, “— _fuck_ —“

Tsukishima kisses him hard, muffling his voice – one stroke, one more, one, and then Yamaguchi’s uttering a soft noise, the angel’s name rolling from his tongue as he comes over his hand, hips rolling, pleasure ebbing in and out like ocean waves. It’s not the most intense thing, not by far, but when he opens his now-bleary eyes to meet the angel’s, the sheer intensity of the emotion there is enough to make his entire body lock up.

He breathes hard, letting the final dregs of heated pleasure drain from him, before he slumps forward onto Tsukishima with a sigh.

It’s embarrassing to admit how much that’d tired him, but for the moment he’s content to let himself rest against the angel, the stickiness between them forgotten.

It’s easy. All of it is so, so easy – he loves Tsukishima. He loves his eyes, he loves his voice, the sheer size of his being and intellect – he loves waking up to him, to that messy hair and shockingly vulnerable face – his sardonicism, his wit, his strange taste in food – all of it. Every last bit.

He loves this too, Yamaguchi decides, heart thrumming slow in his ears as he listens to Tsukishima breathe. When the angel brings a hand up, brushing knuckles over the ridges and bumps of his spine, he makes a pleased noise, melting into him entirely.

There’s more to it, he’s sure: there’s still more he doesn’t know, or won’t ever know, but he loves what he knows: and if he can count on Tsukishima to stand by him, then he’d have forever to learn more.

For now, however, he’s content to let such matters be, preferring instead to touch what he knew, and familiarize himself with the angel’s sun-warmed skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is so late! the next chapter is the last full chapter before the epilogue  
> thanks for sticking around for so long! this story is always fun to add onto  
> your support means the world to me
> 
> until next time xoxo


	9. THE FALL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's always been you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience! this is the final chapter of the main story.
> 
> enjoy!

When August comes, the world goes grey.

It happens slowly, in increments; the sun pales to white, first, before everything else starts to fade. The grass goes next, silently bleeding its verdance into the dull earth with every passing day.

Tsukishima tries not to think about it. If he focuses hard enough, he can still see flickers of color at the edges of his vision, and that’s enough for him to convince himself that nothing’s amiss. He can feel the Earth turn underneath him, as it always had, the _cosmos_ of a lost angel creaking at its core. That in itself is familiar, grounding in its own way, despite the ever-present sense  of dissent that emanated from the Earth’s center.

Still, he’d learned to ignore it. Everyone had.

He blames his dulled senses on the absence of his glasses. It was all too easy to arrive at that conclusion: with the loss of his far-sight, it was only natural that color would follow, as well. That’s what he would have himself believe, anyways.

Yamaguchi’s presence is enough to distract him from his own thoughts. His body is enough to remind Tsukishima’s how to work – his own skin prickles raw, more and more vulnerable with each passing day, lungs burning with the breaths he’d forgotten he now needed – but when he feels Yamaguchi’s pulse, against his wrist or from across the room, his own body falls into sync.

His body might as well have been fully functional, with all its new half-familiar needs – he’d woken from sleep not several days ago with a gasp, eyes prickling and skin cold, chest expanding with the deep breath he’d inadvertently pulled in. Breathing was a human function: having it thrust upon him so suddenly had resulted in too many near-blackouts to count.

His cosmos expands under his skin, pressing up against its confines, sighing and shifting with every breath he takes. It’s strange, so strange – he can feel every heartbeat (heart? He had a heart now, apparently) so clearly, every touch against his skin with startling intensity – it makes his head spin, makes him dizzy, another sensation he’d recently discovered. Being human meant being constantly overwhelmed, it seemed – but he could taste, could feel, could hear and touch and breathe.

It was everything he’d wanted, but terrifying at the same time.

Yamaguchi had fallen asleep on him once, head tucked under Tsukishima’s chin, that funny cowlick on his head brushing his cheek – Tsukishima had felt his heart pound, had remembered Yamaguchi’s reverent voice when he’d whispered _“I think I love you,”_ and his stomach had dropped.

The room was silent, save for Yamaguchi’s quiet breathing. Tsukishima had stared down at him, mouth opening and closing, before he’d finally managed to speak, hesitant and slow: “I love you,” he’d breathed, skin tingling –

And silence had answered him, sweet and familiar, the sound of his new heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

 

* * *

 

**[ OIKAWA, ARCHANGEL? ]**

 

“You’re too late,” he hums, and he can feel Kuroo’s unease spike in jagged amber waves.

The world sings around him: he can feel the plants grow towards him, sensing the otherworldly source of amassed _cosmos_ within his skin, can feel the animals in the earth stir and quicken in his presence, can feel humans inadvertently draw close whenever he passes by.

It’s awful. He feels itchy, confined, skin tight around the galaxy barely contained within his glamour. The errant guardians he had to deal with didn’t make things any easier, either – if it weren’t for his unfaltering responsibility, he could still be among the stars, not touched down where archangels weren’t supposed to walk.

“Are you slow? Or are you just stupid, Kuroo-san?” Oikawa challenges, teeth bared in a grin. To his chagrin, the Guardian doesn’t respond. Still, he can feel the flicker of defensive irritation that burns into view before fading away.

“Neither.” Kuroo answers, all professionalism and composure. Oikawa’s smile widens.

“Then explain to me,” he singsongs, moving to pace around the Guardian’s back. He watches Kuroo’s shoulders tense. “Why Tsukishima is still on Earth? Because from what I remember,” he pauses just behind him, dangerously close to his ear, “I told you to end this, Kuroo-san.”

He hears Kuroo breathe, purposely, a rattling exhale of stardust and nerves. Pale, rusty motes spin past his lips, blinking in the air before disappearing back into nothingness.

“That’s easier said than done.” he grinds out, eyes focused stubbornly ahead. Oikawa watches them. He can see the resentment burning there, the anxiety, the frustration and anger – he can see it all, eating away at the edges of his _cosmos_ , the first wisps of humanity seeping in and corrupting his core.

“And why is that?” Oikawa pretends to be very interested in his fingernails, noting dirt beneath them with disgust. He flicks his fingers, and it’s gone, starshine sparking bright at his fingertips. Kuroo’s Glow crackles in response to the query, a cautious burnt-orange.

“You try murdering someone under an angel’s care.”  He answers, affronted, fingers curling into fists. Oikawa observes them with glee. “Can’t get anywhere near. You saw what happened that last time.” He swallows hard despite his hardened countenance, eyelids flickering. The sound rings in Oikawa’s ears.

Of course he’d seen what had happened. The debacle that’d been an unauthorized Revival had set the divine airways abuzz, pinpricks of _cosmos_ flaring with alarm for miles around - it’d have been some sort of sick miracle in itself for Oikawa to have somehow missed it.

He resumes his pacing. Kuroo’s eyes follow him, slitted and betraying nothing of the emotions just starting to bubble under his skin. He’s as impassive as could be, the stony-faced picture of obedience -- but his turmoil wasnn’t something so easily hidden. Oikawa bites his lip, stifling a bubbling laugh. It’s all a joke, down here; some warped chess game with unwilling pieces, unwarranted feelings scattered all over the board.

“That was a disaster, wasn’t it?” Oikawa waves his hand dismissively, pale flecks of glitter sloughing off his skin to scatter into the air. “Not my fault, though.” he rounds on Kuroo suddenly, the air between them crackling with static. “This is your job, remember? Not mine.” He scoffs, derisive, jabbing a finger into the center of Kuroo’s chest. The Guardian stumbles back a pace, momentarily breathless. “Are you telling me you’re incapable of completing a simple task?”

Kuroo rubs at the sore spot on his chest, eyeing Oikawa with suddenly thinly-veiled dislike. He says nothing, however, so Oikawa presses on.

“Are you telling me you’re useless?” he jabs, “that you can’t even follow clear orders? Because if I didn’t know any better, Kuroo-san, I’d say you’re purposely shirking your duties.”

Kuroo exhales hard through his nose. Still nothing.

“What made you so weak?” Oikawa’s voice drops low, air pressure rocketing up as he draws in close. He can feel the warmth of Kuroo’s _cosmos_ , contained within skin barely inches away from him. It thrums in brass coils, echoing dissonance off every rib within his chest. “Has Tsukishima-san been a bad influence on you?”

With that, Kuroo jerks his gaze away, casting it off somewhere to the side. His jaw works, teeth grinding together, undoubtedly biting back a stinging reply. Oikawa’s hand shoots out to grab his jaw, forcefully turning his head back to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands, and Kuroo’s lip curls with anger. Oikawa smiles wide, all teeth, fingers digging into skin. “Aren’t you going to answer? Are you that easily swayed?” he mocks, meeting the lit-match intensity in the Guardian’s eyes with a distant rumble of thunder. The earth tilts under them.

Kuroo’s growing rage builds, glamour flickering, amber rays peeking out through the cracks in the illusion. They burn where they hit Oikawa’s skin, and he smiles again, pulling Kuroo close enough for their foreheads to touch. Maybe he would get angry enough to burst out of his glamour completely. The thought makes Oikawa laugh, sudden and bright, and his grip tightens.

“This is bullshit.” Kuroo finally says, voice low and heated. The burst of anxiety that un-knots from his chest scatters stubborn loyalty through the air, and Oikawa lofts a brow, the air around him growing tighter.

“You don’t have a choice in the matter.” He grips Kuroo’s jaw tighter, shaking the Guardian's head as if scolding him like a dog. “Remember, Kuroo-san?”

He watches the angel’s face twist, little licks of flame flickering at the ends of his hair. There’s something hurting in his gaze, furious and frustrated, muscles tightening where they coil around his fake bones.

“Get off me.” Kuroo says suddenly, short and irritated, jerking back from the archangel’s touch. Oikawa lets him go, infinitely amused as he watches Kuroo rub the soreness from his jaw and cheek.

For a moment, he says nothing, breathing hard and uneven as he stares Oikawa down. The fury rolling off of him in waves is almost palpable, spreading sticky tendrils of heat through the air. Oikawa waits patiently, but the facade wraps itself firmly around Kuroo’s face once more -- he watches, waits, but his face is carved marble once more -- so he tries again, derision laced heavy in his voice.

“This is why you weren’t Made an archangel.” He comments breezily, combing fingers through his hair. Little stars fall onto the ground in their wake. Kuroo watches them. “You have faults at your core.” He waves a hand, gesturing vaguely. “You’re just like Tsukishima-san, you know? Your skin is too thin.” a laugh, “Metaphorically. And literally, maybe.” Kuroo shifts as Oikawa’s gaze lands on him, probing, seeking out the rebelliousness too obvious to quell. “This is why you’re down here still.”

The hurt that blossoms from Kuroo is just strong enough for Oikawa to sense. He'd struck a nerve, maybe - but he wasn’t supposed to have nerves to strike, not really, which only served to further prove his point.

"I don't care about that." Kuroo bites out. Oikawa perks up. "S’not about me." he pauses, seemingly searching for words, "It’s about - doin’ things I’m not supposed to do. Killing." his tone flattens, taking on a grave timbre, and Oikawa blinks.

"If I tell you to do something, then you do it." Oikawa points out, eyes gleaming with mirth. "Regardless of your personal… moral inclinations, you’re bound by honor." he shrugs, throwing his arms wide. "You're out of luck, Kuroo-san!"

When Kuroo sighs, frustrated, forest fire echoes behind the sound. Oikawa can sense the tension there, in the tightness of his posture, the clenching of his fists, the furrow of his brow. He almost feels sympathetic.

"To hell with you, then.”

The words come, and all semblance of sympathy immediately drains out of Oikawa as the Guardian speaks - for a moment, all he can do is stare, meeting Kuroo's challenging gaze with shock of his own. The sheer defiance there is enough to render him speechless, if only for a moment, before he utters a high, incredulous laugh. Outright disobedience warranted ferocious consequences, as Kuroo likely knew - he’d already resigned himself to punishment, it seemed.

"Excuse me?" Oikawa says, voice betraying nothing.

"I won't do it." Kuroo shoots back, the muscles in his jaw and neck working as he struggles to pull courage from some deep wellspring. Oikawa flutters his eyelashes, smile beatific, before curling a hand into Kuroo's shirt and yanking him back with a vicious motion. Dust swirls around his feet as a distant wind kicks up, whistling and fierce, thunderheads building dark and heavy in the sky over their heads.

"Why not?" A hiss, _cosmos_ crackling at his core as Kuroo pulls against his grip. The ground shudders again under them, grass and plants withering and dying in outward ripples with his own growing rage. For the first time, Oikawa lets his pleasant facade fall, something ugly and frighteningly other peeking through the blown pupils of his eyes. "Are you defying me, Kuroo-san?"

Kuroo's hands shoot up to where Oikawa grips him tight, blunt nails digging half-moons into his glamour's skin. There's no fear in him, now, just anger - and that makes Oikawa's own fury grow all the more, thunder booming sudden and wild across the dark sky. The Guardian lifts his chin, eyes glinting with a distant flash of lightning. Almost in response, the raging storm builds, reaching a head with a deafening crash.

"Yeah." Kuroo says, voice rough and steady. With a sure, swift movement, he extricates himself from Oikawa's hold, palms smoothing out the wrinkles in his clothing. Oikawa watches him with disbelief, mouth agape, auburn waves of energy seeping from the now-visible cracks in his own glamour. Shock keeps him rooted in place, electricity crackling all along his skin, before he finally shifts back to a standing position - and just like that, the storm disappears, leaving the sky flat and white.

"You do understand what this means for you?" Oikawa says stiffly, light glinting from his eyes in random patterns, quick and unpredictable. "The consequences that will follow?"

"Uh-huh." Kuroo laughs again, a little breathy, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “You don’t have to remind me.” He fixes Oikawa with an unusually serious gaze, pupils narrowing to thin lines. Oikawa feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Kuroo's _cosmos_ is nothing compared to his own, swirling dark and rich under his skin, but the sudden smell of burnt pines remind him there’s stardust shared in his bones.

Oikawa watches him, seething quietly. It's all he can do to contain himself: losing control would be devastating for the earth around him. Already, the trail of dead and ruined plants stretched out in a circle for yards, coming back to the withered and scorched spot Oikawa stood atop.

"I'll take any punishment you'll give me." Kuroo's voice drops, suddenly quiet, and Oikawa's furious gaze snaps back to him. "I'm not-- gonna be responsible for this situation anymore." he casts his eyes upwards, staring past the sky and up to something distant, shimmering dark and far out of eyesight. " 'sides. They're happy. You know what being happy is, right?" When he looks back down, his smile twists into something bitterly sardonic.

"That's your fault." Oikawa breathes. Kuroo blanches somewhat, expression flickering. "If you'd-- finished this-- then we wouldn't be here, would we? They wouldn't be like this. We could be home." he snaps, and Kuroo shifts his irritated gaze back down to the ground. “But, no… you’re just as broken as Tsukishima is!” Oikawa's voice lifts into something high and hysterical, laughter bubbling through in furious splashes of noise.

He feels Kuroo tense as he draws close once more, an admonishing finger held out in front of him. "If you want me to finish this myself, Kuroo-san," he begins dangerously, holding his palm flat in front of him, "then I will. But this - all of this - is on your shoulders."

With that, he slams the heel of his palm into Kuroo's chest. The Guardian's reaction is immediate - his eyes widen and he coughs, loud and wheezy, a hand automatically flying up to his heart. _Cosmos_ spills from his lips in streams of bloody rust, hissing where it falls to the ground, little green plants sprouting in the wake of every sparkling drop. Seemingly unable to speak, he holds his chest, shoulders heaving as more and more spills from him, pooling on the ground beneath him. Oikawa watches him with an expression somewhere in between amusement and disgust before he straightens, expression returning to something familiar and genial.

"When I take Tsukishima-san back to Heaven with me," he says conversationally, watching Kuroo retch up his life force onto the ground, "you're coming too." A silence, and then: "I'm finishing this for good."

The sky growls once again, and Oikawa wraps himself in a blanket of white clouds. The last thing he sees before willing himself out of existence is Kuroo falling to one knee, pine tree saplings springing up where his blood soaks into the earth.

 

* * *

 

**[ TSUKISHIMA, ??? ]**

 

 _A cherub,_ he remembers Kuroo saying, _right here. In this bakery. Haven't you noticed?_

He blinks at the gently lit display cases. Something seems off about them. The fact that the store was closed for the night didn't seem to be the thing that bothered him, however - despite the silent corners of the brand-new store, shiny ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above him, it all seems perfectly normal in comparison to the growing sense of wrongness nudging at the back of his mind.

Before he can fully concentrate on that thought, however, it slips away in favor of wayward observations of the new shop. Despite its reopening, Yamaguchi had yet to return to work, even with the store's owner promising him his old position (and increased pay). Still, Tsukishima couldn't blame him - not with the memories of fire that still lurked at the fringes of his dreams. Tsukishima did all he could to keep them at bay, and Yamaguchi hadn't suffered since Tsukishima had returned, but the thoughts were still there, ready to pounce.

Despite himself, he aims a cautious glance at the closed kitchen doors. Being overly cautious had slowly become the only viable way of surviving.

Tsukishima wanders close to the displays, eyeing the meticulously decorated cakes within. There’s a love that thrums within the building, vibrating down to its very foundations even with the newness of it all. It echoes deep enough for Tsukishima to hear, singing of something old and sincere.

He's glad he can sense that, at least. His footsteps sound quietly, tapping against the carefully scrubbed linoleum floor. The silence would have been unnerving, had he not expected it. The kitchen ovens hum quietly behind closed doors. They're the only thing that reminds him that time still passes in the world around him.

With a hesitant hand, he reaches out and touches the glass case.

It doesn't break like he'd been expecting, somehow - exhaling a quiet sigh of relief, Tsukishima watches the glass fog up around his fingers, the heat of his skin seeping out in white patterns. It's strange. He breathes in, pulling his hand back. The foggy handprint remains, swirled fingerprints smudged onto the glass before they both fade, leaving nothing behind.

The sudden sense of unease returns, and Tsukishima glances warily to the side. He's still alone, as he had been the whole time.

Haven't you noticed? Kuroo's voice rings in his mind once more, and he shakes his head. There was no trace of _cosmos_ here - not any that he could sense, at least. Tsukishima's brow furrows.

What was the point of reminding himself of all this? His dulled senses weren't exactly something he wanted to focus on - he knew his time was running out. The thought plagued him throughout every waking moment. The reminder of his inadequacies lingered too often, as it were.

With a start, Tsukishima realizes he doesn't remember coming here.

Panic sets in immediately. Feeling his heart pound, Tsukishima wracks his brain, trying to dredge up any memories - why had he come here? How? The white walls of the bakery seem like a prison, suddenly, and he swallows thickly.

Perhaps he was dreaming. He pinches his arm. It hurts.

Frustration blooms deep in his stomach, and he huffs, running a hand through his already-wayward hair. It wouldn't do to remain here, not while he was so confused - with a final glance around the empty shop, he draws into himself, willing his wings to expand.

Nothing happens.

Tsukishima stares at his hand in shock before trying again - the world flickers around him briefly, but he remains stubbornly in place, wings rustling in their hidden pocket of air. He breathes in deep once more, willing himself not to panic - he could walk back to Yamaguchi's apartment. He had legs, after all. Abruptly, he turns on his heel, striding over to one of the closed glass doors. Reaching out, he wills it to unlock, waiting for the satisfying click of the metal mechanism before he grabs the door handle.

He pushes. It doesn't budge. Tsukishima stares at it, dismayed, before trying again.

Nothing. He shoves at the door several more times, but to his chagrin, it remains resolutely shut. Panic does rise high in his throat, then - why was he trapped? Was he dreaming, after all?

The sound of his heartbeat in his ears becomes too loud, suddenly, and he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes with a groan. There was no reason for him to be stuck here. There was no reason for him to even be here in the first place. He exhales again, trying to steady his nerves. Grey creeps in at the edges of his vision, sparking in dull splashes behind his closed eyelids.

A sudden pop sounds behind him, air pressure changing sudden enough to make Tsukishima wince. Slowly, he turns, hands falling from his eyes as he comes face-to-face with a haggard-looking Kuroo.

"Oh." he says. "Oh." Again, lower this time, as his gaze travels down Kuroo's body. "What-- what happened to you?"

Kuroo laughs - a wheezy thing, choked and thick. Tsukishima watches _cosmos_ spill from his mouth with fascinated horror, eyes following where it falls to the ground in streams to sizzle against the spotless tiles beneath his feet.

Tsukishima steps forward before he can even think about it, steadying Kuroo with a hand on his back. _Cosmos_ drips down onto his shoes. He watches it burn into nothing, skin crawling with a sudden metallic heat.

" 'kawa." Kuroo grunts around a mouthful of rust. Tsukishima's brow creases.

"What?” A shake of his head, confused, “What-- did he do?" Tsukishima urges, his other hand flying to Kuroo's waist as he stumbles. Kuroo laughs again, mirthless, breath rattling in his throat. His _cosmos_ sticks to Tsukishima's skin, insistent and warm.

"Punched a hole in me." Kuroo finally manages, with some effort. "Like a balloon." He grins, wide and delirious, teeth red with melted brass.

Tsukishima's head spins. He almost wants to laugh, incredulous, but then Kuroo's knees buckle and he springs forward almost immediately, lowering him to the ground with overly cautious hands. For a moment, he lets Kuroo catch his breath, listening to the distant whispers of his cosmic energy fade away into nothingness.

"Why?" Tsukishima asks, quieter than he'd meant. Kuroo's eyes focus off somewhere in the middle distance, and he sighs, shoulders sagging.

The silence that stretches after the question weighs heavy, dampening Tsukishima’s entire body with some growing dread. He counts the breaths he has to remember to take, now - one, two, exhale, before the change of expression on Kuroo’s face brings his attention close once more.

"Do you really wanna know?" he queries, slow, sounding defeated. Tsukishima stares at him, apprehension growing tight in the pit of his stomach, before he nods, jerky and quick. Kuroo laughs. It sounds more like a dry heave than anything. "I don't feel like much of an angel anymore." Kuroo murmurs, eyes slipping shut. Wordlessly, Tsukishima watches him, suddenly aware of a lump in his throat. "Y'know? Not good enough. Not this time around." Another rivulet of _cosmos_ trickles down his chin.

"We were never angels." Tsukishima reminds him sharply, reaching up to wipe the liquid metal from his face. "Not really. You know that." His lips purse as Kuroo chuckles again, head lolling to meet Tsukishima's gaze.

"I know." he mutters, eyelids drooping. A drop of amber leaks from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek. "But I liked being an angel this time around." He fixes Tsukishima with a stare once more, mouth twitching into a fond smile. "We were demigods once, remember?"

Tsukishima nods silently, stomach flip-flopping. Kuroo's _cosmos_ leaves glowing trails of orange over his skin.

"And nymphs." Kuroo sighs out a laugh, hands falling limp by his sides. "And kings... and demons, and spirits, and gods." He closes his mouth, humming faintly. "I was good at being all of those things. But this... not so much." His gaze flickers, and he grimaces. Tsukishima holds his breath.

Another silence as Kuroo holds the gaze, pained and insistent, pinprick irises wavering where his mouth does the same. Tsukishima’s aware of his heart aching dull in his chest - he clears his throat, brows drawing together with some irritated worry.

"What are you trying to tell me?" he asks, greying irises fixed on Kuroo's brass-smudged features. Kuroo's smile fades, and he glances up at Tsukishima, eyes suddenly exhausted and sad.

"I'm sorry." he says, voice low and heavy. "Oikawa wanted - he wanted you to go home. Said you were disruptin' the natural order of things." He licks smeared _cosmos_ from his lips. "I'm beginning to think he just wanted to fuck with you, though."

Tsukishima counts his breaths again, willing his treacherous heart to stop its ceaseless pounding. Kuroo's voice drops low enough so that he has to lean closer, straining to hear the words that barely make it past his lips.

"You gotta believe me." Kuroo says, voice cracking somewhat. "I didn't wanna - I didn't want to, but I couldn't say no." He bites his lip, searching Tsukishima's face. "I didn't want to interfere, Tsukishima..." he trails off, pointedly refocusing his gaze on the ceiling.

Tsukishima feels his chest tighten. Something about Kuroo's words strike a chord deep in him, but he can't figure out what it is, why--

"I felt bad every time." Kuroo continues, guilt stamped on his paling features. "Yamaguchi - he's a nice guy, you know? I hated doing it. I felt bad." he repeats, almost desperately.

It clicks, then, and Tsukishima goes still.

Yamaguchi wasn't unlucky. No one was that unlucky. It made sense - of course it made sense, that something - someone - was interfering with Yamaguchi, tricking him, nudging him, pulling him this way and that like some sort of sad marionette. He didn’t have free will. Neither of them did. Everything up to this point had been a design - a divine intervention, deadly intention hidden behind heavenly voices.

Grief barrels into Tsukishima like a truck, and he grabs at his chest, eyes prickling. It wasn't fair - that wasn't fair, he hadn't gotten the time he was supposed to - it'd been taken from him - stolen -

"I'm sorry." he hears Kuroo say again, barely audible over the rushing of blood in his ears. "I... really am."

Tsukishima hears a broken sound. He doesn't know where it comes from.

Kuroo keeps quiet as Tsukishima drags his burning gaze back down to him. For a moment, even through his building panic, he notes Kuroo’s face - he looks pathetic, leaning back unsteadily on his hands, _cosmos_ dripping from his nose and mouth like blood. The look of shame stretched across his face didn't help things much, either.

"I-- Tsukishima?" Kuroo starts, cautious, slowly blinking rust out of his eyes.

A pause.

Tsukishima draws his hand back, fingers curling into a fist, and punches him.

Kuroo's head snaps to the side. A shocked breath leaves him at the impact, and for a moment, he remains as he is, gaze fixed on the opposite wall. He makes no move to stop Tsukishima, however, not even to retaliate - and that makes the pain in his chest worse, throbbing with the emotions that pulse just behind his eyes.

He watches a bruise form on Kuroo's cheek, ugly and purple, before it wavers and fades back into nothing. It doesn't make him feel any better.

"Why?" he hears himself say, quiet and raw. "Why did you-- why did you listen to him? Why didn't you tell me?" he demands furiously. "I could've-- we could've avoided all of this!"

"Couldn't say no." Kuroo mutters.

Another half-choked noise. Tsukishima hits him again.

It's ridiculous, almost - resorting to physical blows just like a human would - but Tsukishima had resigned himself to humanity long, long ago. Emotion, breath, touch: all of these things were his, now, wrapped up in the dying embers of his lost _cosmos_. He watches actual blood drip down Kuroo's face, mixing in with his _cosmos_ with a hissing noise. Kuroo still doesn't react. Above it all, Tsukishima can hear himself breathing, ragged and uneven as his knuckles start to ache.

Without thinking, he reaches out, grabbing the front of Kuroo's soaked shirt and hauling him close. Still, he says nothing, eyes soft with guilt and pity.

"Why can't I leave this place?" Tsukishima manages, finally, voice shaking. To his surprise, his hand also shakes, grip unsteady in the fabric clenched in his fingers. Kuroo exhales slowly, shifting to wipe blood from his chin as he looks towards the closed doors behind Tsukishima.

"Oikawa, too, probably." he says quietly. "He's gonna--" Kuroo's eyes unfocus, before widening with alarm. "Oh, shit." He bolts up, sitting ramrod-straight as he whips his gaze back around to Tsukishima. "He said he was gonna-- finish... this. Himself. Since I told him to fuck off." He almost sounds like he wants to laugh, if it weren't for the dismay slowly creeping over his features.

Tsukishima pales as that sinks in. Immediately, he casts a glance over his shoulder, through the glass door and at the apartment building that reared up in the distance, tall and familiar.

"Tadashi." he breathes, heart sinking. Without thinking, he casts his senses out, searching for a familiar energy pattern - after a moment, he feels it, pulsing bright and silver just within his range of sight. It's - fluttering somehow, wavering in and out, and that makes worry flare brighter in Tsukishima's chest.

Then it disappears, and Tsukishima snaps back into himself with a jarring thud.

For a moment, he lets himself catch his breath, vision swimming. The only thing he can see - hear - is Kuroo in front of him, looking pained, face smeared with red and amber. Tsukishima tries again: he stretches out of his body, mind struggling, to no avail. Nothing comes to him. He can't see Yamaguchi anymore. Something heavy settles in his throat, and he swallows, hand flying to his heart once more.

"I need to leave." Tsukishima says numbly, eyes blurring over. His breath feels wrong somehow, burning in his throat, skin raw and prickling. "I need to--" Again, he wills himself to disappear, body flickering in and out of sight momentarily before re-solidifying. He can feel his pulse growing faster, roaring in his ears as panic surges high in his veins.

"Hey." Kuroo sits upright, slow and creaking, brow furrowed. "Tsukishima, you're..." he trails off, placing a steadying hand on Tsukishima's arm. He barely feels it. "You don't-- you're running on empty." he says, sounding worried. "You don't... have any _cosmos_ left."

As if in response to his words, Tsukishima feels something stutter in his chest before growing still. A chill sets into his bones, crawling along his skin, quieting the rushing of blood in his ears.

"What?" he asks numbly, blinking. Kuroo's words don't seem right - they don't make sense, they couldn't be true - how were they even possible? "But I-- I need to go, he's-- I can't feel him anymore--" Tsukishima's voice breaks, then, wavering in an uncharacteristic shift of tone.

Kuroo stares at him, and he can feel the pity there. Tsukishima wants to hit him again, but all he can do is stare back, eyes wide and desperate. He can feel fully now - can feel his own panic, his anger, his worry - thrumming through his veins like wildfire.

Humanity.

"Alright." Kuroo says. Tsukishima snaps back to attention. He sounds tired. "Alright. I'll--" he struggles to sit fully upright, wincing as he does so. "Lemme-- I can help. It's the least I can do." He fixes his gaze on Tsukishima.

Tsukishima nods wordlessly. Kuroo's gaze wavers for just a moment before he takes a deep breath, eyelids fluttering. He reaches up, wiping amber _cosmos_ from his chin - as Tsukishima watches, he spins it between his fingers. It crackles before shifting, expanding and clouding around his palm in a fog of shimmering particles. Tsukishima smells smoke, thick and ashen, burning his eyes. He blinks.

"Here." Kuroo says roughly, extending the hand. Tsukishima stares at it like it's an alien object. "Open your mouth." he adds urgently. "C'mon. You-- don't have a lot of time, yeah?"

The truth of the statement jars Tsukishima, and he opens his mouth uncertainly, lips parted. He can still feel his own fury hot under his skin, but at the same time he wants to trust Kuroo - like he already had for years and years and years, flickering quiet and distant together among the stars.

Hesitantly, Kuroo presses his palm close, the warmth of the spinning energy in his hand tickling Tsukishima's skin. "Breathe in." he says quietly, and Tsukishima does.

Almost immediately, the _cosmos_ fills his lungs - he coughs and coughs, tasting ash and incense smoke, hot metal and pine. Trails of orange light blaze behind his eyes, blurring out his surroundings. Something flickers back to life in his chest, stuttering and barely there - but it's something, a small fire flaring to life next to his treacherous heart. He breathes in deep, and the tiny warmth nestles into his ribs.

"Go." Kuroo mutters. "Get outta here. That should-- be enough for you to leave."

Tsukishima blinks, feeling his stomach turn. Sure enough, his wings flash out behind him as he wills them to, featherless but still arched high and proud.

"Don't thank me." Kuroo says quietly. "Just-- go. Fly."

And Tsukishima does. With one last look at Kuroo, guarded and careful, he extends his wings with a snap - and then he wills himself away, homing in on a familiar pinprick of silver light, pulling Kuroo's _cosmos_ tight around his heart.

 

* * *

 

Yamaguchi doesn't remember coming up onto the roof.

He blinks at one of the chimneys spilling steam onto the dark asphalt. It billows thick and white in the light of the setting sun. He feels like he should be more concerned with the circumstances, but all he can feel is an odd peace, heart beating out a steady pace in his chest.

The sun dips just below the line of trees in the distance, a pale yellow disc casting orange and red rays over Yamaguchi's skin - he squints, watching the colors spread across the sky. It's kind of nice.

The sky had always looked better from up here. The top of his apartment building wasn't that much closer to the stars than the ground was, but on the roof, he could at least pretend that he was close enough to touch them. Tsukishima had showed him how close they really were, anyways - he remembers vividly the constellations that'd spun past him, passing right in front of his eyes and through the rift the angel had opened in the sky for him. There’s an odd little dip in his stomach at the memory, like the moment before a drop in height.

Tsukishima.

Yamaguchi frowns, looking around. Where was the angel? He'd come with him to the roof, surely - but as he casts his gaze around the darkening roof, shadows stretching long all around him, the only sight that greets him is empty air.

That's weird. It makes him a little anxious, too. Crossing his arms self-consciously, Yamaguchi looks around once more, teeth digging into his lower lip. "Tsukishima?" he asks the space in front of him, quiet and cautious.

At first, he hears nothing - but then there's a bang behind him, scattering the silence, electricity crawling through the air, and he turns on his heel to face the source of the noise. Rather than coming face-to-face with Tsukishima, as he'd expected, he finds himself staring down another all-too-familiar face. He takes an automatic step back, surprise momentarily flashing over his features.

"Yamaguchi-san!" The archangel spreads his arms wide, beaming. "It's good to see you! It's a pretty night, isn't it?" His voice rings with nothing but pleasantry, but even so, Yamaguchi eyes him warily. Wherever Oikawa went, destruction of Yamaguchi's property seemed to follow.

"You're not going to set my furniture on fire again, are you?" Yamaguchi blurts before he can stop himself, voicing his concerns out loud. Oikawa eyes him for a moment, bemused, before uttering a musical laugh.

"Oh, no, no, don't worry about that." he assures him, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. "I'm just here to say hello. How's Tsukishima-san doing? Well, I hope?" He smiles at Yamaguchi expectantly, drawing closer. Yamaguchi steps back a pace.

Despite knowing that Oikawa was an angel, something about him put Yamaguchi on edge - perhaps it was his unnerving smile, or his unnaturally bright eyes - or the way he takes yet another step closer to Yamaguchi, expression open and unassuming.

"Um." Yamaguchi blinks, remembering the question. "He's-- yeah, he's good, I guess - but, uh, he's not around right now." He casts another sweeping look around him, as if to make sure. Oikawa hums, brows lifting with evident surprise.

"Really?" he exclaims, sounding genuinely curious. "Ah... but aren't you two inseparable?" He intones the last word with a grin, flashing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Yamaguchi flushes immediately - memories of Tsukishima's hands come to mind, his mouth, the way he sighs Yamaguchi's name -

He desperately hopes Oikawa can't read his mind, but the way the archangel's smile widens confirms his fear.

"I guess." he mutters, looking down at his feet. "But - you know, he does weird things sometimes, I guess. Angel stuff." He laughs, a little uncertainly, reaching up to scratch his arm idly.

"Maybe he got tired of you." Oikawa suggests brightly. Yamaguchi's gaze snaps up, shock and dismay mixing on his face. To his chagrin, the archangel offers no explanation. He takes another step forward, hands shoved in his pockets. Yamaguchi steps back.

"Maybe?" Yamaguchi responds, a little uncertainly. The air feels very tense, suddenly, tight with electricity. “I - don’t understand.”

Something about the way Oikawa’s looking at him makes him afraid, almost, unease prickling along his skin as he somehow maintains eye contact. Wind ruffles his hair as the sun bleeds into the sky, and he shivers despite the humid air.

“I mean,” Oikawa gestures vaguely, eyes shifting to the side in thought. “You’re kind of a handful, you know? You and your… accidents.”

Yamaguchi’s face burns, and he glances down, embarrassment overriding his apprehension. At the top of his vision, he sees Oikawa step closer once more, shoes coming into view. Still, he doesn’t look up, briefly overcome by his own humiliation - of course he was a handful. Of course he was a burden. Of course he was too much to handle, even for an angel.

When he looks up, Oikawa’s standing right in front of him. He jerks back in surprise, unsettled, brow furrowing as the archangel laughs again.

“That’s a lot of energy he’s expending for you.” he says breezily, eyes raking over Yamaguchi’s face. “We’re not eternal batteries, you know. We get tired. Especially under unneeded duress.” His tone changes to something pitying, and Yamaguchi’s stomach twists uneasily. Despite all his efforts, all his careful questions, Tsukishima had only gotten worse over time, grey eating all the gold in his eyes.

“Sorry.” It’s all he can think to say, numb. Oikawa’s eyes gleam, hiding something behind the swirling brown, there. Silence hangs between them for a moment, before the archangel claps his hands together, clearing his throat.

“Well, that’s almost past us, right?” Oikawa says brightly, head tilting to the side. Something grows in his eyes as he stares at Yamaguchi, pupils shrinking, irises shrinking, until there’s nothing but white eating the color - fear hits Yamaguchi then, molten in his chest, and he takes another slow, faltering step backwards. “Ah… I have to take care of Tsukishima-san, you know. It’s my job.”

The wind tugs at Yamaguchi’s hair, arms tense by his sides as he watches the archangel with wide eyes. The white expands, expands, until there’s no color left at all - nausea rolls in his stomach as Oikawa smiles again, ugly and frightening.

“So… you’ll have to forgive me for my words.” the archangel continues conversationally, footsteps slow and unnaturally loud against the concrete as he walks Yamaguchi backwards over the roof. His eyes - his eyes are horrifying, pinning Yamaguchi to the spot with an unnatural stare, smile suddenly too wide and sharp for his face. “You’ll forgive me, right?”

There’s a blur of motion, and Yamaguchi loses his breath as Oikawa flickers into existence right in front of him, hands fisting into a steel grip in his shirt. He struggles automatically, terror choking him, making him sick -

“What are you doing?” he blurts, voice shaking. When Oikawa laughs again, he flinches, ears ringing with the sound - he’s breathless with the speed of it all, from being completely alone to having Oikawa right in his face with gleaming eyes. “Why…”

Yamaguchi trails off, throat suddenly dry as another gust of wind rakes its fingers through his hair. Oikawa’s mouth twists with mirth, looking off to the side as if seemingly carefully considering the question.

“I have to protect humans,” Oikawa says softly, expression relaxing, “and I have to protect angels. You must understand that this is nothing personal.” He falls silent, and Yamaguchi watches him as he stares off into the distance. His heart jumps when that pale gaze whips around once more, blanching back from that smile. “You have to die, Yamaguchi Tadashi.”

There’s another change in air pressure, the world flickering in color around him, before they’re materializing into sight once more - all of Yamaguchi’s breath leaves him in a wheeze once more, eyes watering as he finds himself with nothing under his feet. He dangles from Oikawa’s grip, hands scrabbling at the archangel’s wrists as terror seizes him, wipes his mind blank.

“You’re,” Yamaguchi gasps out, legs kicking at empty air, eyes wide with panic where he struggles to meet Oikawa’s, “you’re not an angel.”

Oikawa considers him closely, white eyes gleaming bright, before he offers another smile.

“No,” he agrees cheerfully, “I’m not.”

He lets go, and Yamaguchi falls.

 

* * *

 

**[ TSUKISHIMA, HUMAN ]**

 

Tsukishima catches Yamaguchi solid in his arms the moment before his wings disintegrate. The world spins, the roar of distant space goes silent, and they fall together through empty air.

 

* * *

 

It hurts when he hits the ground. The impact knocks Yamaguchi’s breath from him, and he rolls, vision scattering with color and pain. When his body comes to a stop, he inhales sudden and deep, a desperate bid for air - everything aches, bones throbbing with protest as the starry sky swims back into sight above him.

For a moment, he lets himself lie there and breathe - it’s too much effort to move, what with his labored breaths barely pulling in enough cool summer night air to keep him conscious. Dizzily, the thought of _I’m still alive_ flashes across his mind, and he ruminates on that with some measure of wonder until some of the pain bleeds from his system.

When he finally gathers himself, he rolls over, and a mop of mussed pale hair comes into view.

Almost immediately, he sits bolt upright, vision flickering with the sharp movement and inhale - with sudden worry shaking his hands, he reaches out, unsteady palms finding the curve of Tsukishima’s shoulder.

“Tsukki,” he says, finally, voice hoarse, “hey -- Tsukki, you okay?”

Silence answers, save for a faint breeze - the angel’s skin holds no color, pale and cold and unresponsive. Yamaguchi’s eyes prickle for a moment, and he swallows down the soreness in his throat, fingers tightening in the thin fabric of Tsukishima’s shirt. The situation is all too familiar, now, and the bitter worry lying thick on his tongue is something he knows well.

“Tsukki,” Insistent, now, grip tightening on Tsukishima’s shoulder to roll him over onto his back. There’s no response, still, even as his body shifts with Yamaguchi’s tugging. Yamaguchi’s vision blurs again as he stares down at him, cold and unanswering on the ground, and a lump grows thick in his throat.

Angels couldn’t _die._ Even with Yamaguchi’s scant knowledge of angels and the things that lay beyond, he knew they were immortal - but even that thought isn’t enough to comfort him, brows drawn together as he watches for any sign of life. Tsukishima doesn’t stir under his hands.

“No,” he hears the word come from his own throat, tinged with disbelieving desperation. His grip tightens. “Please… come on, Tsukishima…” His voice breaks halfway through the angel’s name, and he bites down on his lip, aching limbs drawing in closer to his body. The world around him feels too big, suddenly, and he keeps his blurred gaze on Tsukishima’s unmoving form, willing himself to stop shaking.

 _That was my last chance,_ Yamaguchi realizes then, with a start, and his heart stumbles against his ribs. Panic builds, slow at first, burning in his lungs as he hunches over, gaze riveted on Tsukishima’s face - something in him pulls in cold, gathering dread in his stomach. He half-expects Tsukishima to dissolve to dust right there with his newfound revelation, but the angel remains as he is, lying prostrate with long limbs askew.

_My last chance._

_“Kei.”_ His voice shakes, trembling alongside his hands, goosebumps prickling all along his bare arms - the lump in his throat grows thicker, eyes burning, vision swimming into nonsensical blurs once more. A shuddering inhale as he bites back a broken noise, fingers worrying at Tsukishima’s shirt.

When Yamaguchi hears an inhale, sudden and tiny, he holds his own breath - then there’s a movement under his fingers, sluggish, barely there. He lifts a hand, hurriedly scrubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, hope sudden and soaring high in his chest as he blinks down at Tsukishima. As his vision clears of tears, eyes still red-rimmed, he meets the angel’s half-open grey gaze.

“I hate you.” Yamaguchi says immediately, the timbre of his voice cracking high again. He sniffles, relief bursting in little sparks under his skin as the angel stirs, blinking and confused. “Stop - scaring me like that.” The wobble in his voice is more than obvious, but he finds it in him to not be embarrassed for once, concern still overriding everything else in his system.

There’s another short silence as Tsukishima moves to sit up, wordless, expression dull - he struggles to prop himself up on an elbow before it promptly gives out, sending the angel flat on his back once more. Worry flashes hard and immediate through Yamaguchi, and he shifts himself closer, a hand cautiously finding the curve of his cheek.

“Don’t… if it hurts, don’t push yourself.” he offers weakly, palm cupping smooth over the cool skin there. The angel blinks at him again once more, face still deathly blank, before something changes in his eyes.

“You’re alright?” Tsukishima says, sudden, voice barely audible. Yamaguchi nods, suddenly wordless, any words he might’ve said wiped clean by the sudden sight of tears glassing the angel’s eyes. “I’m glad.” Tsukishima continues, hoarse, hands lifting to press his palms over his face. There’s something thick and wet in his voice, half-strangled and foreign, unfamiliar with all its revealing intensity.

“ ‘m okay.” Yamaguchi finally says, quiet, as way of offering something substantial. “Are you?”

The question is met with silence once more, and for a moment, Yamaguchi thinks the angel’s gone unconscious again. He swallows hard, fingers brushing over his jaw - even when Tsukishima finally lets his hands fall to look at him, the tight knot of anxiety in his stomach barely loosens.

“Thought I was going to be too late.” Tsukishima murmurs - it sounds like he’s talking to himself, even with his eyes trained on Yamaguchi’s face. “Could’ve - could’ve stopped this one.” Something akin to anguish flickers brief across his expression, and his brow furrows, a tentative hand coming up to cover Yamaguchi’s where it lies gentle on his cheek.

“No,” Yamaguchi’s mouth goes dry with sudden guilt, and he shakes his head, eyes watering at the corners once more. “No, it wasn’t -- Oikawa, he --” his voice falters, words drying up as his mind flashes through what had just happened. He swallows again, suddenly overwhelmed, gaze automatically flickering up to the lip of the rooftop hanging stories and stories above them.

“I know.” Tsukishima answers, almost immediately - there’s a measure of desperation, there, and it pulls Yamaguchi’s eyes back down to him in an instant. “I know -- there’s been someone interfering… with you, Tadashi.” he trails off, mouth still half-open, dull eyes searching Yamaguchi’s face. “--I’m sorry.”

Yamaguchi takes that in, head spinning with the sudden implication - _someone interfering_ could mean any number of things - and really, taking Tsukishima into consideration, he’d been aware of someone interfering in his life for months now, anyways. He blinks down at the angel, uncomprehending.

“You’re not… _unlucky_.” The angel adds, slow, unsure. There’s a miserable guilt lacing his voice, raw and bare, now. “You’ve been manipulated.” Another heartbeat pause. “...into dying.”

The world slowly, slowly comes to a halt.

Yamaguchi stares down at him, disbelieving, hand stiff where it’s still cupping Tsukishima’s jaw. Five sensations assault him at once, memories following the angel’s words --

 

one; water in his lungs,

two; pavement against his skin,

three; electricity along his nerves,

four; fire through his bones,

five; empty air under his feet.

 

He jerks back, phantom pain blooming under his skin, eyes widening with slow, slow understanding. Despite himself, his vision blurs again, hands clenching into tight fists. Through his sudden haze, he can barely feel Tsukishima’s fingers against his, brushing over his knuckles.

_Game over. Game over._

“I need you to tell me what’s going on,” Yamaguchi bursts out, voice high and shaking, “right now. I need to know what’s going on _right now_.” The demand in his voice trembles, scared, furious. “Everything. Tell me - everything.” He heaves in a breath, shoulders tense, thoughts suddenly too fast in his mind - even though he’s looking right at Tsukishima, he can barely see him, half-forgotten movie reels of trauma replaying behind his eyes once more.

He expects the silence that follows that, as well, jaw clenching tight as he fights back panic threatening to overwhelm him once more. His heart’s pounding fit to burst, remembering all the times it had stopped, skin crawling with the sudden memory of flame and asphalt. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair.

“...I found you when you were new.” Tsukishima says after a long silence, barely audible, and Yamaguchi forces himself to focus on his voice. “I found you when - you weren’t human, yet. You were a _sound,_ first.” His words sound far-off, slow, as if recalling something half-lost.

All at once, the pain in Yamaguchi’s blood fades, leaving behind something pulsing, reacting in tiny waves to the sound of the angel’s voice.

“I wasn’t supposed to linger, but I grew attached to that sound. To you.” A pause, gaze shifting from Yamaguchi’s face to the scant stars that litter the sky above their heads. “Ah - my job was to protect you until it was your time, and then move on.” Subconsciously, his teeth worry at his lower lip. Yamaguchi watches him silently. “But… I did not want to move on. I didn’t want to protect anything else. Just you.”

Yamaguchi sniffles, Tsukishima’s words reaching him slow, slow, as if coming from somewhere far away. Slowly, he lets his fingers uncurl, palm smooth and flat against Tsukishima’s cheek once more. His heart paces steady, now, even, quiet as if to allow Yamaguchi to hear the angel’s words clearly.

“So I did. I -- followed you. Every time.” Tsukishima stops, voice wobbling. “Every time you died, I guided you to your next life. And you… it took so many tries until you were a human for the first time, but when you were…” he inhales, slow and unsteady, shining gaze gradually finding its way back down to Yamaguchi. “You had stars on your skin.”

There’s another silence as Yamaguchi stills, feeling the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It doesn’t quite register that Tsukishima’s talking about him, really - it sounds like he’s listening to a story, some fairytale right off the pages of a book. He doesn’t move, gaze unblinking on the angel as he seemingly gathers himself to speak once more.

“And I… couldn’t go back home, not when I knew you existed. I had to be able to find you, so -- so I stayed. Here, on Earth. With you.” The angel stops again, words halting as if each one physically pained him - he shifts his grip, moving to twine his fingers with Yamaguchi’s. Somehow, it makes him feel grounded. “But I - we - angels can’t stay forever. It drains our energy, being away from home.” his voice trails off to a murmur, eyelids drooping once more.

Yamaguchi swallows hard once more, rooted in place - his mind whirls, trying to process the information. It makes sense, hearing it, but - it’s a mistake, surely. There was no reason for an angel to follow _him_  around for years on end. His brow creases, slow, heartbeat slowing to something sluggish under his skin.

“I lost you.” Tsukishima says, then, just loud enough for Yamaguchi to hear. There’s anguish bleeding into the angel’s voice, now, just enough to make Yamaguchi shiver - it’s old, the feeling, resentment and self-hatred seeping back deep and thorough.

“You lost me?” Yamaguchi repeats, speaking for the first time, sounding small. Tsukishima’s eyes flicker open again, focusing on him with renewed intent - though his irises remain flat and grey, the distant moonlight casts a reflection that makes them look almost lifelike once more.

“You died. I couldn’t get to you in time.” A murmur, again, voice rising and falling in pitch with the evident wax and wane of his energy. “And by that time… I was too weak to find you all over again, so I had to look.” The angel’s gaze bores into Yamaguchi, raw with intent. “It took me five lifetimes to find you again.”

That rings a bell, close and all too familiar -- “Five.” Yamaguchi echoes, almost dreamily. “You lost me for five lifetimes, and so…”

“So when I did find you again,” Tsukishima barrels on, voice rising only infinitesimally. “I could allow myself to give you five chances. I - bound myself to you before, so you were already under my care, technically.” The corners of his mouth turn up, half-bitter. “My desperate last bid to stay with you.”

Yamaguchi’s head spins, the intake of information overwhelming - he wants to refuse, to deny the story being applied to him, to buy into the unreality of it all - but the truth burning bright in the angel’s eyes strip him raw and vulnerable down to his core. It doesn’t sound real - it all sounds like a sick prank, again, like the first time the words _I’m an angel_ had come out of Tsukishima’s mouth.

“I don’t remember you.” Yamaguchi finally offers, groggily. His fingers twitch where they’re still sandwiched between Tsukishima’s cheek and palm, numb with the night breeze. Desperately, he tries to search his memory, tries to delve deep into some sort of hidden bank of experiences that must surely be there - but there’s nothing past what he remembers from his life. _This_ life. (The implication of past lives does nothing to alleviate his dizziness.)

Tsukishima stares at him, expression troubled and raw. He lifts his eyes to the sky once more, as if offering a silent prayer, before his gaze resets itself steadily on Yamaguchi’s face.

“Come a little closer.” he says quietly, voice betraying an unyielding longing. The air between them grows thick and tense, Yamaguchi only hesitating for a fraction of a second before he’s leaning down, down, hovering close enough to see the scant remaining flecks of gold in Tsukishima’s eyes.

Tsukishima’s other hand shifts, limping upward to tangle now-clumsy fingers into the hair at the back of Yamaguchi’s head - he tugs him in close, searching his expression with something akin to desperation. His knuckles are cold, hard where they dig into his skull, and the silence echoes infinitely loud aside Yamaguchi’s now-pounding heart until the angel speaks again.

“It’s always been you.” Tsukishima says, plain, before opening his mouth and saying a _word._

When it reaches his ears, the entire world whites out.

The _sound_ rings deep and true, echoing through and between every bone in Yamaguchi’s body. Little flashes of color flick across his vision, warm and too quick to catch - the word smooths along his skin, sighs deep and easy through his nerves and muscles. There’s autumn lying thick on his tongue, sunlight pale and warming dry leaves.

He’d compare it to Tsukishima’s name, but this is different - this is all-consuming, wrapping around him tight and familiar. Distantly, past the _word’s_ sound, he feels _something_ budge in his mind - he feels _something_ break under the force of it, muscles dropping limp as _something_ rushes sudden and hard through his veins.

It sounds like mountain wind, like first frost - it’s wheat-rustle crackle-sigh, and he

 

_remembers_

 

being the wind, remembers stretching out over plains and plains and sky, remembers joy and embrace and threading through thermals and sunlight and

 

_remembers_

 

sprouting from the new earth, blooming to face two small golden suns, and

 

_remembers_

 

blinking open eyes, for the first time, and seeing a halo of blonde hair, wind-tousled and flecked with stars

 

_remembers_

 

every first breath he’d taken, every last breath entrusted to the same face, the same voice, the same person, always, and

 

_remembers_

 

the _sound_ is his own name, a fall morning and dusk sun through the trees, familiar wool and home just around the corner. Tsukishima is suddenly intimately familiar under his hands, every fleck of fading gold energy now visible to his eyes, aching and reacting in little bursts to his own silver.

“Oh,” Yamaguchi says, voice quaking, hazelnut and dew fading on his tongue. A hundred lives rush through him, a thousand, memories filling and overflowing every dip and gap in his mind - his _name_ echoes bronze and reedy through his ears, taking down crumbling mental walls with it, leaving a clear connection between _the beginning_ and _now._

Tsukishima’s face swims in his vision, replaced with rapid-flickering images of the faces he’d held before - some young, some not, some dark and some scared and some angry but always, always with sun-eyes, always brilliant gold and knowing.

“It’s you.” he lets his voice shake, spin out of control, tears blurring hot and sudden over his gaze. “It’s you. I…” A laugh bubbles up, catching on the edges of languages he thought he’d forgotten, “I can’t believe I forgot you.”

Through his tears, he can see Tsukishima’s smile, tender and infinitely anguished at the same time - and Yamaguchi smiles back, pained, chest and shoulders jumping with a hiccup as he shifts to card his fingers through the angel’s hair. For once in many, many lives, he can’t bring himself to care about how his entire body trembles, love ferocious and aching deep through every part of him.

“I’m sorry I took so long to find you again.” Tsukishima says, voice weak. Yamaguchi’s heart aches, pounds relentlessly against his ribs at the words, and he shakes his head vehemently.

“You’ve always been so good to me,” he whispers, feeling tears drip hot down his cheeks, “you’ve always-- done so much. Don’t be sorry. Please don’t.” A sniff, head still spinning with the ever-flowing increase in memories. At that, Tsukishima’s expression wavers, brows crashing together hard as he sets his jaw - it looks like he’s holding back tears of his own, suddenly, shoulders drawn in tense and miserable.

“No,” Tsukishima insists, words thick and shaking. “No, this… is the last time, Yamaguchi. I’m sorry.”

Yamaguchi’s mouth opens and closes, shock suddenly wiping the stream of memories clean. It’s barely a moment before despair comes barreling into him, all too familiar, and a lost noise escapes him, hands clenching sudden and clumsy in Tsukishima’s hair, in his shirt, knuckles dragging against his skin.

“I just got you back.” he says weakly, voice barely audible. “I just…” He tries to swallow the sob blossoming thick in his throat, to no avail - it catches in his chest, shaking his entire body with sorrow, robbing him of any further words.

“I‘m glad I found you.” Tsukishima murmurs, sounding distant - instantly, Yamaguchi’s gaze flicks down to meet the angel’s, grip tightening. There’s a sudden, frightening lack of energy in his voice, eyes half-closed - for a moment, they shut completely, before flickering back open. His gaze wanders up to Yamaguchi’s face, tired, drawn, but still somehow fond. “I almost gave up.”

“Please-- don’t go.” Yamaguchi whispers, sudden cold knifing through every part of him. Desperation bubbles high, and his entire face crumples, voice broken. “I don’t-- I can't forget you again.”

Tsukishima blinks at him, slow, exhaustion creeping grey over his skin. He can see it, Yamaguchi realizes with a sudden, horrified start - he can see the gold peeling off of the angel in flakes, wisping off into the air, leaving his skin and hair flat and dull. The feeble pulse under his palms stutters, slows, slows.

“Please.” He hears himself again, voice cracking, but it’s drowned out by the sound of some far-off star grinding to a halt, fires guttering into silence.

“...I’m sorry, Tadashi.” Tsukishima’s words, barely there, scatter dull greying dust into the air, shining once before blinking into nothing - nothing, nothing. The angel’s eyes close, pale lashes sweeping low and shut over grey eyes, and a breath rasps slow and shallow in his throat.

It’s happening too fast. Yamaguchi’s head spins, numb with the oncoming loss, and he shakes his head vehemently, tears dripping fast and hot anew. Moonlight touches down around them, washing out any lick of color - for a moment, it feels like they’re the only two people in the world, embracing at the end of everything.

“I’ll... find you again.” The angel breathes, fingers loosening where they’re curled tight in Yamaguchi’s hair, still. “I will…” he trails off, exhale long and slow before his arm falls, limp and bent.

Seconds pass. Yamaguchi lets them go by, world frozen on its axis, heart thundering in his ears. It's a lifetime, five lifetimes, a hundred lifetimes - there's a sigh, guttering, stardust scattering lost into the night air.

The angel's breath stops, and Tsukishima goes quiet.

“I _love_ you,” Yamaguchi sobs, words echoing through hundreds of years, hundreds of lifetimes, through every autumn breeze and crashing wave - it draws a circle back to where they touch, to where the final motes of gold flicker around Yamaguchi’s head like a halo.

He leans in as close as he can, breath shuddering in and out - his fingers find Tsukishima’s again, limp and cold, heart suddenly screaming in his ears. It’s too much. It’s too much and the angel is _dead_ and for the first time in any life, in any existence, Yamaguchi is completely, totally alone.

When he hears footsteps approach, shifting quiet over the grass, he doesn’t move.

“That’s enough, Yamaguchi.” Oikawa’s voice is quiet, strangely devoid of any feeling as he draws near. Yamaguchi tenses, head buzzing - he doesn’t react until the archangel reaches out and touches his shoulder, jerking away from his palm.

“Go away.” Yamaguchi says, voice foreign and slow with grief. He jerks again when Oikawa grips his shoulder - then again, with sudden terrified desperation as Oikawa yanks him back, back, away from Tsukishima’s limp body.

“That’s enough, I said.” It’s snapped, and Yamaguchi’s breath rushes from him as he’s tossed back onto the grass. Sluggish, he struggles back to prop himself back up, horror striking him dumb as the sight of Oikawa crouching over Tsukishima swims back into view.

“Don’t--” his voice cracks, and he scrambles up onto his knees, ignoring how his limbs scream protest at him - “Don’t touch him, stay _away-_ -”

Without looking at him, Oikawa throws up a hand in his direction, palm facing him, and Yamaguchi finds himself tumbling backwards, rooted to the spot. Desperately, he struggles against the invisible hold, tears streaking his face as he watches the two angels helplessly.

From seemingly nowhere, there’s a faint golden glow popping into view in Oikawa’s other hand - it spins just into sight, a richly lit orb resting solid and nestled in the archangel’s palm. Yamaguchi’s core aches as he remembers it with a jolt - remembers Oikawa sifting through his insides like a wardrobe, pulling out little humming slices of energy to piece together into a golden ball.

There’s a terse silence as Oikawa leans in close, shifting ball of gold throwing little reflections of light onto the ground - Yamaguchi doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest starts to ache unbearably, and he finally exhales hard and shaky as the archangel moves to pry Tsukishima’s mouth open and tip the orb in, past his lips.

It slides in like water. For a moment, nothing happens, before there’s a sound like a match striking and a sharp inhale - Tsukishima’s eyes shoot open, flashing with a blinding crack of gold, and he sits bolt upright with a blaze of electricity.

Oikawa exhales a half-sigh, half-laugh, finally deigning to shoot a glance over his shoulder back at Yamaguchi - he sits back on his heels, gaze switching back to Tsukishima as he reaches out to ruffle a hand through the angel’s hair.

“Just in time,” he says cheerfully, “you almost killed him!” He’s blinking around at Yamaguchi again, smile sweet and false across his face. Yamaguchi blanches as Oikawa stands, brushing dirt and grass from his pants with a hum - fear grows hard and thick in his throat once more once the archangel starts to move towards him, and he falls back onto the ground with a thud.

“Is he--” Yamaguchi swallows hard, eyelids fluttering as he trains his aching eyes on Tsukishima, sitting upright and silent just yards away. “Is he--?” his voice drops to a whisper as Oikawa draws close, expression flattening once more, smile fading - and Yamaguchi tears his gaze away, scrambling back and over the grass in alarm.

“Alive? Yes, barely. No thanks to you.” There’s a nasty dip in Oikawa’s voice as he comes to a halt several feet away, cool derision making a home on his face. Yamaguchi’s anxiety heightens, body tense and ready to bolt, a shiver wracking his frame.

He’s torn between fear and grief, undecided on whether to look at Oikawa standing menacing or Tsukishima staring blankly into space - a half-sob catches in his throat again, and he hiccups, vision blurring over with new tears, fingers clenching into fists in the dewy grass. It’s not _fair._  Desperation crawls through him, prickling hot and ugly over his skin, and his head dips with a shuddering breath.

“Well. That’s the end of that, I think.” Oikawa’s voice comes closer, prim and cold, and Yamaguchi looks up at him through wet lashes. “It’s your turn, now.” The archangel reaches for him, skin dusted with flawless glitter - the stars above them shine hard and bright, suddenly closer, suddenly harsh in how they wash out the grass and silent scenery around them.

Yamaguchi’s frozen to the spot, watching Oikawa’s hand stretch out, a hundred lives buzzing through his mind - Tsukishima in wartime, Tsukishima unknowable and unformed and tangled with the wind, Tsukishima’s hands when they were still warm - but always him, every time, always the sun.

“Don’t,” he bursts out, voice cracking, scrambling back another pace over the wet grass even as Oikawa draws nearer, “don’t -- stop, get away from me--”

 

_That’s enough._

 

They both freeze as _something_ rings through the air, soft and clear. It’s a voice - at least, Yamaguchi thinks it’s a voice - echoing over the earth, sweeping silent and consuming. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, standing on end, static ringing sudden and loud in his ears.

When he blinks, there’s a woman standing behind Oikawa’s shoulder.

The archangel immediately whips around, alarm flashing brief across his face - for the first time, he looks unsure, taking a quick step back from the stranger. She doesn’t react to him at first, silent blue gaze searching - when her eyes find Yamaguchi's, expressionless behind rectangle glasses, she locks in, brow creasing only infinitesimally.

For a moment, Yamaguchi swears his heart stops. There’s something quiet in her stare, terrifying and deep, far-off spinning stars and whispering space - he can’t look away, suddenly lightheaded, mouth tasting of ash.

“Fate,” Oikawa murmurs, and the woman turns to him.

 

_Go._

 

The voice is hers, somehow, though her lips don’t move - Oikawa almost quails under her scrutiny, swallowing hard, before he’s squaring his shoulders. Any hint of joviality disappears from his expression, and he offers a curt nod, before turning on his heel.

There’s still a ringing in Yamaguchi’s ears - he watches blearily, mind scrambling to comprehend the woman’s existence even as he takes in the sight of Oikawa making his way back over to Tsukishima’s side. When he rests a hand on the angel’s shoulder, Yamaguchi tears himself out of his reverie, alarm ringing sudden through him --

“Wait-- what are you--”

 

_Go, the both of you._

 

Yamaguchi’s breath catches hard in his chest, stopping entirely, blood running cold - his heart’s suddenly wild in his ears, screaming a warning as the archangel’s grip tightens on Tsukishima’s shoulder.

“Please don’t,” he gasps out, gaze shifting to frantically search Tsukishima’s eyes - there’s nothing there, no sunlight, no recognition - he’s an empty shell under Oikawa’s hands where they tighten in the fabric of his shirt. _“Please--”_

Tsukishima blinks, slow, and meets Yamaguchi’s eyes--

There’s a blinding flash of light, and they’re gone.

Yamaguchi stares at the empty space in front of him, indents still in the grass from where Tsukishima’s body had lain - silence ripples out in circles, overwhelming, wind whistling slow as it rustles through his hair. His lungs burn, chest aching and tight, eyes round and wide.

 

_Yamaguchi._

 

The voice sounds again, gentler somehow as footsteps sound, closer over the grass. He doesn’t look up at the woman as she draws near, crouches down to his level - it’s only when he sees distant starlight glint off the glass of her lensed, hair blending navy and black into the sky that loss tears into him, and a sob rips itself from his throat.

“No,” Yamaguchi gasps out, words broken and wet with grief, sounds echoing under the empty sky, “no, God-- I just _found_ him again, I just--”

 

_I’m sorry._

 

A cool palm brushes down his cheek, and he weeps, shoulders quivering as his eyes squeeze shut. Tears run hot and wet down his face, tracing down constellations, dripping from his chin onto the grass. Fate’s presence is cold, skin all starlight where he can see her through blurred vision.

 

_This was not my design. Please understand._

 

The hand traces to his forehead, breeze whispering over his skin - it does nothing to soothe him, weeping soft and open under her touch. His chest feels empty, hollow, aching - Tsukishima’s attached by strings, dizzy at his core, pulling more and more from him the further he travels away, beyond the stars.

 

_I cannot let you remember this mistake._

 

Yamaguchi’s head jolts upwards, meeting Fate’s cool gaze with stricken horror - everything in him rebels in that, goes frigid, bones shivering with dread. He remembers Tsukishima by a riverside, remembers him as shifting waves, remembers him as the first sensation of warmth to touch his skin--

“It’s not a mistake,” he whispers, voice clogged with tears, lips trembling. “I don’t want to forget.”

 

_I’m sorry._

 

Her palm presses closer, flat against his skin, eyes glimmering with something akin to pity. Yamaguchi shakes, shrinking, terror rendering him blind-- _I don’t want to forget, I don’t want to forget, I don’t want to forget--!_

Fate leans in, pressing a whisper of a kiss to his forehead, and then he’s falling, falling, one final distant, flickering star winking into darkness above him.

 

 

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

 

 

Yamaguchi wakes to sunlight streaming in through his window. He blinks his eyes open, groggy, the sound of his A/C rattling in his ears. His phone blinks at him from his nightstand, and he squints at it, words swimming into view - stifling a yawn, he slowly shifts out of bed, feet sliding against the wooden floor.

He can see Hinata’s name in the notification - for now, he tucks it into the pocket of his pajama pants, reaching up to rub sleep from his eyes as he pads towards the door.

The knob turns as he moves into the hallway, inadvertently making a face at the change in temperature - it heats his skin as he makes his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall, scratching at his cheek.

There’s a strange soreness in his limbs - idly, Yamaguchi wracks his mind, trying to think of the cause - after a moment or two of pondering, he blames it on jogging home after work, and closes the bathroom door behind him.

When he turns to look at his reflection in the mirror, he stops and squints.

Maybe it’s his imagination - he leans in closer to the glass, eyes narrowing as he takes his face into consideration. There’s something off, freckles spattering over his nose in unfamiliar patterns - had he always had those there?

He stares silently, reaching up to trace a fingertip over the new speckles, wondering. It’s the summer sun, surely, dotting his skin with new marks - but even so, a sudden feeling of unease strikes a chord through him, deep and unsettled. They’re familiar, somehow, strangely so - but maybe he’d had them all along.

Yamaguchi abandons the thought for now, shrugging, gaze lifting to take the rest of himself in.

He turns to meet his own eyes in the mirror and immediately jerks back, surprise flickering brief across his face - the same feeling of displacement ripples through him again, deep and foreign as he blinks several times, as if trying to dispel some sort of illusion.

It’s strange. The sunlight catches his eyes, striking a glowing soft brown - but somewhere, twinkling deep in that color, tiny flecks of gold shine back at him. Yamaguchi blinks several times, as if trying to clear them away - but they remain as they are, winking stubborn and bright and new.

Something nags at the back of his mind, peculiar and just out of reach.

Lifting a hand, he rubs at his eyes until little winks of color fade in behind his eyelids - sniffing, he opens them, blinking away the brief dizziness before peering at his reflection once more.

No change. The little specks of gold stay as they are, deep and rich.

It feels like he’s forgetting something important - but before he can chase that errant thought, his phone buzzes again, and he fishes it out of his pocket to peer at the screen. Hinata’s name flashes again, several messages one after the other, and his eyes skim over them.

With one final glance at the mirror, he decides to ask a doctor about it later - he turns on his heel, then, opening the bathroom door and exiting back into the hallway. Sunlight casts little square panes of yellow on the floor, warming the places he steps, apartment empty and familiar.

There’s something missing, but Yamaguchi has somewhere to be, now.

He glances at his armchair as he passes by, gaze shifting back to his phone after a lingering moment. A slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth as he opens the messages, reading them with a steadily growing sense of warmth.

Leaves rustle outside as he makes his way over to the window, setting his phone on the sill as he reaches for the lock at the top of the sill - with a little click, he pops it open, before he’s throwing the window open with a sure, quick movement. For a moment, he squints, blinded by the bright morning light, the sudden sound of birdsong reaching his ears - a breeze winds past, gentle and easy, and he breathes in the fresh summer air deep and slow.

Another buzz of his phone - _come meet us in 30 minutes!!_ \- and he’s already moving, light on his feet back to his bedroom, steps airy and weightless with some deep sense of belonging and satisfaction.

The wind whispers at his back, bringing some strange, distant sound of bells with it. He doesn’t turn to look.

Behind him, the curtains flutter, and two pale feathers gust in through the open window.

Yamaguchi shuts his bedroom door behind him, and they dissolve to dust.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be the epilogue and the final installment in this series. as always, thank you for all your feedback and support!


	10. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you._   
>  _It’s only fair that I should be the one_   
>  _to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes_   
>  _until I find the one where you’ll return to me."_
> 
> _\- Tongari_

The Voice speaks, and it grants the angel's wish.

**I WILL GIVE THIS GIFT TO YOU.**

A galaxy breathes out, stars spinning round and round and round, before they blink out, one after the other.

 

\---

 

The sun rises hot over the sands, as it always does. 

There’s already sweat beading under a boy’s robe, white and flowing where it hangs light on his shoulders. Despite the rich tan that hides under the fabric, an indicator of a life spent in the deserts, the heat assaulting him from all sides is near unbearable.

It’s with a sigh that he slogs through the dunes, grains of sand catching between the soles of his feet and the rough leather of his sandals. There’s no respite in the journey from his home under the earth on his way the _mirrored lake,_ and it shows in the exhaustion weighing his limbs down.

With a touch of indignation, he shifts the jugs slung over his shoulders, wooden pole digging uncomfortably into his back-- it’s his mother’s fault, he thinks irritably, a muttered curse under his breath as he stumbles over a dip in the sand.

The storm last week had injured their _thyrer,_ sand tearing the webbing stretched thin between the hollow bones of its wings, and so-- with a pitiful look, hand resting atop its scales, his mother had pleaded with him to retrieve the week’s water by foot 

Heat rises in little ripples, fuzzing through the air in wave, blurring his mind over with something thick and dull. The boy shakes his head, trying to clear it, vision swimming as a whisper of a breeze winds past his ears.

He trusts in his shoulders for the journey, strong as they are-- when he’d finally grown tall, towering above his mother, she’d teared up and told him solemnly that he was now responsible for all the household work. He’d almost protested, but his mother was a terrifying force of nature wrapped up in a small body, and he valued his life-- so he’d smiled, weak, and accepted the fate that’d been placed heavy upon his back.

His mother and father both had placed all their faith in him over the years, moreso as the storms grew stronger, moreso every time _sky-fires_ streaked down to the sands below, leaving twisted glassy sculptures in their wake. They littered the dunes like solemn trees, arching up into the form of electricity frozen in time and sand. With a nervous look, the boy passes by one of them, skin crawling as its shadow passes cool and flickering over his skin.

 _Maybe it’s the end of the world,_ his friend had said to him once, wind-ruffled hair blending into the orange sunset with his gaze cast up towards the sky. The boy had said nothing, skin crawling as the _sky-fires_ had flickered into existence up among the velvet-blue. One had wobbled, growing brighter, and they’d both scrambled back into their home before it fell.

In the distance, the heat dips, air still and cooling where it falls over the edge of a dune. The boy perks up, expression brightening at the sight-- quiet air meant it lingered over water, which meant that his goal was finally, finally within reach. With a sudden burst of energy, he picks up his pace, robe catching around his legs as he struggles across the sand.

The breeze blows again, tugging at the ends of his hair as he finally makes it to the top of the dune. The sand slopes gracefully down, blown into neat, soft mounds by the wind, sun lighting the way in shining white and yellow. The boy readjusts the jugs once more, triumph and relief alike running through him. His limbs feel lighter at the sensation, and he slowly makes his way down the other side of the dune with careful feet.

The mirrored lake lies flat and shining in front of him, sand damp and darker against its shores. There’s no breeze to reach it here, and it remains unnaturally still, reflecting the cloudless sky above it.

He walks closer, feeling the air around him cool just a fraction, water somehow absorbing all the sound in the air. It’s silent around the lake, sun touching down in irregular patterns where the dunes cast their shadows, _sky-fire_ glass-trees sending gleams of light flickering over the sand. He pauses for a moment, breathing in the unfamiliar air, before he’s shrugging the clay jugs from his shoulders, setting them gently down on the quiet shore.

When he glances into the lake’s surface, he takes pause, forgetting his intentions for a moment. His reflection blinks back at him, windswept and clothed in white. There were no mirrors where he lived, and certainly no water as still as this one-- the seconds tick by as he stares at himself, unfamiliar, bemused, before he shakes his head with a snort.

His clothes rustle as he turns to grab a jug-- another pause, then, as a movement across the lake catches his eye. Instinctively, he tenses-- slavers were all too common, these days, taking advantage of the panic that’d risen in the wake of the falling _sky-fires._ A stranger shuffles down a dune, also clothed in white, seemingly paying no mind to the boy. It’s only after a minute of eyeing him does he decide the stranger’s harmless, and he’s turning back to the jug with hardly another thought.

The motions are familiar: he unplugs it, dipping its mouth into the lake and watching the water ripple out in gentle patterns as it pours silently into the jug. He glances up at the stranger once more, blinking at the sight of him watching the lake with evident fascination. It’s no surprise, he muses, pulling the jug upright with a quiet grunt of effort. The lake entranced even the most level-headed of people in its own way, a pocket of time undisturbed in the ever-changing sands.

He takes the other jug, then, attention re-focusing once again at the task at hand. Again, a touch of indignation bleeds into his mind-- filling the jugs took minutes, whereas the trek back to his home took an hour there, longer back with the weight of the water on his back.

With a sigh, he plugs them both up, slotting the wooden pole between their handles. There’s a moment where he eyes them, resentful, before he’s crouching-- with another tiny noise of strain, he’s hefting them back onto his shoulders, muscles immediately protesting under their weight.

Light blares bright through a glass-tree, and the boy squints at the sudden glare of light-- he steps back, blinded, and loses his footing in the loose sand.

The sky rolls pale blue above him as he falls back, stomach dropping, weight pulling him down, down. Automatically, he heaves in a breath, eyes watering and hands reaching out, desperate, grabbing at thin air--

\--and then it’s not thin air, it’s a pair of warm hands, and the world spins around him once more as he hears the jugs splash into the water behind him. His voice catches in his throat in a hiccup, unsteady as he’s suddenly pulled back to a standing position, shock rendering him stiff.

For a moment, the boy stares into thin air, processing: the sand is warm and loose under his feet, familiar, and his chest heaves with the momentary panic of it all. He’s blinking at the hands wrapped around his own, then following those arms up, clothed in white, over a pair of shoulders, and then up to a face framed by a halo of blonde.

The stunned silence hangs heavy and awkward in the air-- only after realizing the strangeness of his own speechlessness, the boy opens his mouth to speak-- and nothing comes out, mouth clicking shut once more.

The stranger stares at him, expression unreadable, before he’s lofting a single, pale brow.

There’s no sound in the air, now, lake swallowing it whole-- greedy, stealing the world’s voice for itself. Something heavy settles in the boy’s chest, and he’s clearing his throat, letting go of the stranger’s hands in a single instant of embarrassment.

The water sucks the light from the sands around them, rendering them cold, rendering them bare, and the boy shivers with something vulnerable, intimate, familiar.

Shadows stretch long between them, reminiscent of a desert night with no moon-- but with a thrill that shakes him down to the core, he realizes the stranger’s eyes are the color of the _sun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fin.
> 
> a huge, HUGE thank you to all of those who stuck with me through this adventure - i couldn't have done it without your support!! all your lovely comments kept me going for sure. this was so fun to write and i'm so grateful you stayed with me until the end
> 
> i have a tumblr and a twitter @ wetbreadstick
> 
> once more, all my love, and always remember to keep your eyes on the stars


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